■■^■^a^w^N^^^^^-S
Ex Libris
C. k. OGDLN
'^^i
<
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
'^*
■*
m
i
^
i
Afe
NEW NOVELS AT EVERY LIBRARY.
FANCY FREE. By Charles Gibbon. 3 vols.
A REAL QUEEN. By R. E. Francillon. 3 vols.
THE WAY OF THE ^VORLD. By D. Christie
Murray. 3 vols.
MAID OF ATHENS. By Justin McCarthy, M.P.
3 vols.
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. By Walter Besant.
3 vols.
THE LAND-LEAGUERS. By Anthony Trollope,
3 vols.
ANNAN WATER. By Robert Buchanan. 3 vols.
THE FOREIGNERS. By E. C. Price. 3 vols.
lONE. By E. Lynn Linton. 3 vols.
BEATRIX RANDOLPH. By Julian Hawthorne.
2 vols.
THE CANON'S WARD. By James Payn. 3 vols.
FRESCOES : Dramatic Sketches. By Ouida. i vol.
CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
I
THE NEW ABELARD
VOL. II.
WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
' The dumb, wistful yearning in man to something higher— yearning such
as the animal creation showed in the Greek period toward the human — has
not as yet found any interpreter etiual to Huchanan.' — The Si-ectator.
' In the great power of appealing to universal Humanity lies Buchanan's
security. The light of Nature has been his guide, and the human heart his
study. He must unquestionably attain an exalted rank among the poets of
this century, and produce works which cannot fail to be accepted as incon-
lestably great, and worthy of the world's preservation.'
Contemporary Review.
' I'uchanan is the most faithful poet of Nature among the ul-w men. He
is her familiar. Like no British poet, save himself, he knows her.'
Stedman's Victorian Poets.
BALLADS OF LIFE, LOVE, AND HUMOUR. With a
Frontispiece by Arthur Hughes. Crown 8vo. cloth e.xtra, 6s.
SELECTED POEMS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. With
Frontispiece by T. Dalziel. Crown 8vo. cloth e.xtra, 6.f.
UNDERTONES. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 6^-.
LONDON POEMS. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 6s.
THE BOOK OF ORM. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 6s.
WHITE ROSE AND RED : a Love Story. Crown Svo.
cloth extra, 6s.
IDYLLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Crown
8vo. cloth extra, 6s.
ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES : a Tale of Salt Lake
City. With a Frontispi'ice by A. B. Houghton. Crown Svo. cloth
extra, 5.?.
THE HEBRID ISLES : Wanderings in the Land of Lome
and the Outer Hebrides. With Frontispiece by W. Small. Crown
Svo. cloth extra, 6s.
A POET'S SKETCH-BOOK: Selections from the Prose
Writings of Robert Buchanan. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 6s.
THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD : a Romance. Crown
Svo. cloth extra, 3^. 6//. ; post Svo. illustrated boards, 2s.
A CHILD OF NATURE : a Romance. With a Frontis-
piece. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3^. 6c/.; post Svo. illustrated boards, 2.?.
GOD AND THE MAN : a Romance. With Illustrations by
Fred. Barnard. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3^. 6t/. ; post Svo. illus-
trated boards, 2^.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE : a Romance. With
a Frontispiece by A. W. Cooper. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3^. 6d. ;
post Svo. illustrated boards, 2s.
LOVE ME FOR EVER. With a Frontispiece by P. Macnab.
Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3^. 6d. ; post Svo. illustrated boards, 2s.
ANNAN WATER : a Romance. 3 vols, crown Svo. 315. 6c/.
COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT
BUCHANAN. With Steel-plate Portrait. Crown Svo. cloth extra,
7s.6ci. \_In the press.
CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
THE NEW ABELARD
Jl "Romance
BY
ROBERT BUCHANAN
Al'THOR OF 'the SHADOW OF THE SWORD ' ' GOD AND THE MAN ' BTC.
IN THREE VOLUMES— VOL. IL
ITonboit
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1884
lA/l rights reserved'^
LONDON : PRINTED BV
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
CONTENTS
NHZ
V-
2
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER
XI. AN ACTRESS AT HOME
XII. IN A SICK BOOM
XIII. A RUNAWAY COUPLE
XIV. A MYSTERY
XV. THE COUSINS
XVI. IN THE VESTRY
XVII. COUNTERPLOT
XVIII. A SOLAR BIOLOGIST
XIX. EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE
XX. THE THUNDERCLAP
XXI. THE CONFESSION
PAGB
1
21
52
71
8<)
112
135
141
167
186
218
metres
THE NEW ABELARD.
CHAPTER XI.
AN ACTRESS AT HOME.
Ox a certain Monday in June, little more than
a year after the last letter of the correspon-
dence quoted in the preceding chapter, two
young men of the period were seated in the
smoking-room of the Traveller's Club. One
was young George Craik, the other was Choh
mondeley, of the ' Charing Cross Chronicle.'
' I assure you, my dear fellow,' the jour-
nalist was saying, ' that if you are in want of
a religion '
VOL. II.
2 THE NEW ABELARD.
'Which I am not^ interjected George,
sullenly.
' If YOU are in want of a new sensation,
then, you will find this new Church just the
thing to suit you. It has now been opened
nearly a month, and is rapidly becoming the
fashion. At the service yesterday I saw,
among other notabilities, both Tyndall and
Huxley, Thomas Carlyle, Hermann Vezin the
actor, John Mill the philosopher, Dottie De-
strange of the Prince's, Labouchere, and two
colonial bishops. There is an article on
Bradley in this morning's " Telegraph," and
his picture is going into next week's " Vanity
air.
' But the fellow is an atheist and a Eadi-
cal!'
' My dear Craik, so am I ! '
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 3
' Oh, you're different ! ' returned the other
with a disagreeable laugh. ' Nobody believes
you in earnest when you talk or write that
kind of nonsense.'
'Whereas, you would say, Bradley is an
enthusiast ? Just so ; and his enthusiasm is
contagious. When I listen to him, I almost
catch it myself, for half an hour. But you
mistake altogether, by the way, when you
call him atheistical, or even Eadical. He is
a Churchman still, though the Church has
banged its door in his face, and his dream is
to conserve all that is best and strongest in
Christianity.'
'I don't know anything about that,' said
Craik, savagely. ' All I know is that
he's an infernal humbug, and ought to be
lynched.'
B 2
4 THE NEW ADELARD.
' Pra}^ don't al}use him ! He is my friend,
and a noble fellow.'
' I don't care whether he is your friend or
not — he is a scoundrel.'
Cholmondeley made an angry gesture,
then remembering who was speaking, shrugged
his shoulders.
' Why, how has he offended you f Stop,
though, I remember ! The fair founder of his
church is your cousin.'
* Yes,' answered the other with an oath,
' and she would have been my wife if he had
not come in the way. It was all arranged,
you know, and I should have had Alma and —
and all her money ; but she met him, and he
filled her mind with atheism, and radicalism,
and rubbish. A year ago, w^ hen he was kicked
out of his living, I thought she was done with
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 5
him ; but lie hadn't been gone a month before
she followed him to London, and all this non-
sense began. The governor has almost gone
down on his knees to her, but it's no use.
Fancy her putting down ten thousand pounds in
solid cash for this New Church business ; and not
a day passes but he swindles her out of more.'
' Bradley is not a swindler,' answered the
journalist quietly. ' For the rest, I suppose
that they will soon marry.'
' Not if I can help it ! Marry that man !
It would be a standing disgrace to the family.'
'But they are engaged, or something of that
sort. As for its being a disgrace, that is rub-
bish. Why, Bradley might marry a duke's
daughter if he pleased. Little Lady Augusta
Knowles is crazy about him.'
True to his sarcastic instinct, Cholmondeley
6 THE NEW ABELARD.
added, ' Of course I kuow the little womaD has
a hump, and has only just got over her grande
passion for Montepulciano the opera singer.
But a duke's daughter — think of that ! '
George Craik only ground his teeth and
made no reply.
Shortly afterwards the two men separated,
Cholmondeley strolling to his office, Craik
(whom we shall accompany) haihng a hansom
and driving towards St. John's Wood.
Before seeking, in the young man's company,
those doubtful regions which a modern satirist
has termed
The shady groves of the Evangelist,
let us give a few explanatory words touching
the subject of the above conversation. It had
all come about exactly as described. Yielding
to Alma's intercession, and inspired, moreover.
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 7
by the enthusiasm of a large circle in London,
Bradley had at last consented to open a religious
campaign on his own account in the very heart
of the metropolis. A large sum of money was
subscribed, Alma heading the list with a princely
donation, a site was selected in the neighbour-
hood of Eegent's Park, and a church was built,
called by its followers the ISTew Church, and in
every respect quite a magnificent temple. The
stained windows were designed by leading
artists of the sesthetic school, the subjects partly
religious, partly secular (St. Wordsworth, in the
guise of a good shepherd, forming one of the
subjects, and St. Shelley, rapt up into the clouds
and playing on a harp, forming another), and
the subject over the altar was an extraordinary
figure- piece by Watts, ' Christ rebuking Super-
stition ' — the latter a straw-haired damsel with
8 THE NEW A BE LARD.
a lunntic expression, grasping in lier liands a
couple of fiery snakes. Of course there was a
scandal. The papers were full of it, even while
the New Church was buildin^f. Public interest
was thoroughly awakened ; and when it became
current gossip that a young heiress, of fabulous
wealth and unexampled personal beauty, had
practically created the endowment, society was
fluttered through and through. Savage attacks
appeared on Bradley in the religious journals.
Enthusiastic articles concerning him were pub-
lished in the secular newspapers. He rapidly
became notorious. When he began to preach,
the enthusiasm was intensified ; for his striking
presence and magnificent voice, not to speak of
the 'fiery matter 'he had to deliver, carried
everything before them.
It may safely be assumed that time had at
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 9
^
last reconciled him to tlie secret trouble of his
life. Before settling in London he had ascer-
tained, to his infinite relief, that Mrs. Montmor-
ency had gone to Paris and had remained there
with her child, under the same ' protection ' as
before. Finding his secret safe from the world,
he beo-an unconsciously to dismiss it from his
mind, the more rapidly as Alma's relations to-
wards him became more and more those of a
devoted sister. Presently his old enthusiasm
came back upon him, and with it a sense of
new power and mastery. He began to feel an
unspeakable sacredness in the tie which bound
him to the woman he loved ; and although it
had seemed at first that he could only think of
her in one capacity, that of his wife and the
partner of his home, her sisterhood seemed in-
descriljably sweet and satisfying. Then, again,
lo THE NEW ABE LARD.
her extraordinary belief in liim inspired him
with fresh ambition, and at last, full of an
almost youthful ardour, he stepped out into the
full sunshine of his London ministry.
In the least amiable mood possible, even to
him, George Craik drove northward, and pass-
ing the very portals of Bradley's new church,
reached the shady groves he sought. Alight-
ing in a quiet street close to the ' Eyre Arms,'
he stood before a bijou villa all embowered in
foliage, with a high garden wall, a gate with a
wicket, and the very tiniest of green lawns. He
rang the bell, and the gate was opened by a
black-eyed girl in smart servant's costume ; on
which, without a word, he strolled in.
' Mistress up ? ' he asked sharply ; though it
was past twelve o'clock.
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. n
' She's just breakfasting,' was the reply.
Crossing the lawn, Craik found himself
before a pair of French windows reaching to
the ground ; they stood wide open, reveahng
the interior of a small sittino;-room or break-
fast parlour, gorgeously if not tastily furnished
— a sort of green and gold cage, in which was
sitting, sipping her coffee and yawning over a
penny theatrical paper, a pretty lady of un-
certain age. Her little figure was wrapt in a
loose silk morning gown, on her tiny feet
were Turkish slippers, in her lap was one
pug dog, while another slept at her feet. Her
eyes were very large, innocent, and blue, her
natural dark hair was bleached to a lovely gold
by the art of the coiffeur^ and her cheeks had
about as much colour as those of a stucco
bust.
12 THE NEW ABELARD.
This was Miss Dottie Dcbtrange, of the
' Frivohty ' Tlieatre, a lady famous for her
falsetto voice and her dances.
On seeing Craik slie merely nodded, but
did not attempt to rise.
' Good morning, Georgie ! ' she said — for
she loved the diminutive, and v^as fond of
using that form of address to her particular
friends. ' Why didn't you come yesterday ? I
waited for you all day — no, not exactly all day,
though — but except a couple of hours in the
afternoon, when I went to church.'
Craik entered the room and threw himself
into a chair.
* Went to church ? ' he echoed with an ugly
laugh. ' I didn't know you ever patronised
that kind of entertainment.'
' I don't as a rule, but Carrie Carruthers
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 13
called for me in her brougham, and took me
off to hear the new preacher down in Eegent's
Park. Aram was there, and no end of
theatrical people, besides all sorts of swells ;
and, what do you think, in one of the painted
glass windows there was a figure of Shake-
speare, just like the one on our drop curtain !
I think it's blaspliemous, Georgie. I wonder
the roof didn't fall in ! '
The fair doves of the theatre, we may
remark in parenthesis, have seldom much
respect for the temple in which they them-
selves flutter ; they cannot shake from their
minds the idea that it is a heathen structure,
and that they themselves are, at tlie best, but
pretty pagans.
Hence they are often disposed to receive in
quite a humble spirit the ministrations of their
14 THE NEW ABELARD.
mortal enemies, the officers of the Protestant
Church.
George Craik scowled at the fair one as he
had scowled at Oliolmondeley.
' You heard that man Bradley, I suppose ? '
' Yes ; I think that was his name. Do you
know him, George ? '
' I know no good of him. I wish the roof
had fallen in, and smashed him up. Talk
about something else ; and look here, don't let
me catch you going there again, or we shall
quarrel. I won't have any one I know going
sneaking after that humbui?.'
' All right, Georgie dear,' replied the
damsel, smiling maliciously. ' Then it's true,
I suppose, that he's going to marry your
cousin ? I saw her sitting right under him,
and thought her awfully pretty.'
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 15
' You let her alone,' grumbled George,
' and mind your own afiairs.'
' Why don't you marry her yourself,
Georgie ? ' persisted his tormentor. ' I hope
what I have heard isn't true ? '
' What have you heard ? '
' That she prefers the parson ! '
The young man sprang up with an oath,
and Miss Dottie burst into a peal of shrill
laughter. He strode off into the garden, and
she followed him. Comity into the full sun-
hght, she looked even more like plaster of
Paris, or stucco, than in the subdued light of
the chamber ; her hair grew more strawlike,
her eyes more colourless, her whole appearance
more faded and jaded.
' I had a letter this morning from Kitty,'
she said carelessly, to change the subject.
i6 THE NEW ABELARD.
* Kitty who?'
' Kitty Montmorency. She says old Om-
bermere is very ill, and thinks he's breaking
up. By the way, that reminds me — Kitty's
first husband was a man named Bradley, who
was to have entered the Church. I suppose it
can't be the same.'
She spoke with httle thought of the conse-
quences, and was not prepared for the change
which suddenly came over her companion.
' Her husband, did you say ? ' he exclaimed,
gripping her arm. ' Were they married ? '
' I suppose so.'
' And the man was named Bradley —
Ambrose Bradley ? '
'I'm not quite sure about the Christian
name.
' How long was this ago ? '
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 17
' Oh, a long time — ten years,' she rephed ;
then with a sudden remembrance of her own
claims to juveniHty, which she had forgotten
for a moment, she added, ' wlien I was quite a
child.'
George Craik looked at her for a long time
with a baleful expression, but he scarcely saw
her, being lost in thought. He knew as well
as she did that she was ten or fifteen years
older than she gave herself out to be, but he
was not thinking of that. He was wondering
if he liad, by the merest accident, discovered a
means of turning the tables on the man he
hated. At last he spoke.
'Tell me all you know. Let us have no
humbug, but tell me everything. Did you
ever see Bradley before you saw him yester-
day ? '
VOL. II. C
1 8 • THE NEW ABELARD.
' Never, Georgie.'
' But Kitty Montmorency was once married
to, or living with, a man of that name ? You
are quite sure ? '
' Yes. But after all, what does it signify,
unless '
She paused suddenly, for all at once the
full significance of the situation flashed upon
her.
'You see how it stands,' cried her com-
panion. ' If this is the same man, and it is
quite possii)le, it will be worth a thousand
pounds to me — ah, ten thousand ! What is
Kitty's address ? '
' Hotel de la Grande Bretagne, Eue
Caumartin, Paris.'
All right, Pottie. I shall go over to-night
by the mail.'
AN ACTRESS AT HOME. 19
The next morning George Craik arrived in
Paris, and drove straight to the hotel in the
Rue Caumartin — an old-fashioned buildiiig,
with a great courtyard, round which ran open-
air galleries communicating with the various
suites of rooms. On inquiring for Mrs.
Montmorency he ascertained that she had gone
out very early, and was not expected home till
midday. He left his card and drove on to the
Grand Hotel.
It might be a fool's errand which had
brought him over, but he was determined, with
the bulldog tenacity of his nature, to see it
through to the end.
Arrived at the hotel, he deposited his
Gladstone-bag in the hall, and then, to pass
the time, inspected the visitors' list, pre-
[)aratory to writing down his own name.
c ii
20 THE NEW ABELARD.
Presently lie uttered u whistle, as he came to
the entry —
' Lord and Lady Ombcrmere and family,
London.'
He turned to the clerk of the office, and
said carelessly in French —
' I see Lord Ombermere's name down. Is
his lordship still here ? '
' Yes,' was the reply. ' He has been here
all the winter. Unfortunately, since the warm
weather began, milord has been very ill, and
since last week he has been almost given up by
the physicians.'
21
CHAPTER XII.
IN A SICK ROOM.
All blessed promise ! Shall it be fulfilled,
Tho' the eye glazes and the sense is still'd ?
Shall that fair Shape -which beckon'd with bright hand
Out of the Mirage of a Heavenly Land,
Fade to a cloud that moves with blighting breath
Over the ever-troublous sea of Death ?
Ah no ; for on the crown of Zion's Hill,
Cloth'd on with peace, the fair Shape beckons still !
The New Crusade.
It was a curious sensation for Ambrose
Bradley, after bitter experience of a somewhat
ignominious persecution, to find himself all at
once — by a mere shuffle of the cards, as it were
— one of the most popular persons in all
Bohemia ; I say Bohemia advisedly, for of
course that greater world of fashion and reli-
22 THE NEW ABELARD.
^ion, Avliich Bohemia merely fringes, regarded
the New Church ■ and its pastor with supreme
indifference.
But the worship of Bohemia is something ;
nay, Bradley found it much.
He could count among the occasional
visitors to his temple some of the leading names
in Art and Science. Fair votaries came to him
by legions, led by the impassioned and enthu-
siastic Alma Craik. The society journals made
much of him ; one of them, in a series of
articles called ' Celebrities in their Slippers,'
gave a glowing picture of the new Apostle in
liis study, in wdiich the sweetest of Eaphael's
Madonnas looked down wondering^y on Milo's
Venus, and where Newman's ' Parochial
Sermons ' stood side by side with Tyndall's
Belfast address, and the origmal edition of the
IN A SICK ROOM 23
' Vestiges of Creation.' The correspondent of
the ' New York Herald ' telegraphed, on more
than one occasion, the whole, or nearly the
whole, of one of his Sunday discoirrses — which,
printed in large type, occupied two columns
of the great Transatlantic daily ; and he re-
ceived forthwith, from an enterprising Yankee
caterer, an offer of any number of dollars per
lecture, if he would enter into a contract to
' stump ' the States.
Surely this was fame, of a sort.
Although, if the truth must be told, even
Bohemia did not take the New Church over-
seriously, Bradley found his intellectual forces
expand with the growing sense of power.
Standing in no fear of any authority, human
or superhuman, he gradually advanced more
and more into the arena of spiritual contro-
24 THE NFAV ABE LARD.
versy ; retired furtlier and I'lirtlier from the old
landmarks of dogmatic religion ; drew nearer
and still nearer to the position of an accredited
teacher of religious cestheticism. Always
literary and artistic, rather than pmitanical, in
his sympathies, he found himself before long at
that standpoint which regards the Bible merely
as a poetical masterpiece, and accepts Christi-
anity as simply one manifestation, though a
central one, of the great scheme of human
morals.
Thus the cloud of splendid supernaturalism,
on which alone has been projected from time
immemorial the mirage of a heavenly promise,
gradually dissolved away before his sight,
And like the cloudy fabric of a vision
Left not a wrack behind.
The creed of spiritual sorrow was exchanged
IN A SICK ROOM. 2
for the creed of spiritual pleasure. The man,
forgetful of all harsh experience, became rapt
in the contemplation of ' beautiful ideas ' — of
an intellectual phantasmagoria in which Christ
and Buddha, St. John and Shakespeare, Mary
Magdalene and Mary Shelley, the angels of the
church and the winged pterodactyls of the
chalk, flashed and faded in everchanginoj
kaleidoscopic dream.
The mood which welcomed all forms of
belief, embraced none utterlj^, but contem-
plated all, became vague, chaotic, and transcen-
dental ; and Ambrose Bradley found himself in
a fairy world where nothing seemed real and
solemn enough as a law for life.
For a time, of course, he failed to realise
his own position.
He still rejoiced in the belief that he was
26 THE NEW ABE LARD.
building the foundation of his New Church,
which was essentially the Old Church, on the
rock of common sense. He was still certain
that the Christ of history, the accredited
Saviour of mankind, was blessing and con-
secrating his eager endeavour. He still per-
suaded himself that his creed was a creed of
regeneration, his mission apostolic.
He had taken a small house on the borders
of Eegent's Park, and not far away from the
church which Alma had built for him as a
voluntary offering. It was arranged plainly
but comfortably, with a touch of the then pre-
dominant Eestheticism ; the decorations tasteful,
the furniture mediaeval ; but all this was
Alma's doing and, throughout, her choosing.
Bradley himself remained unchanged ; a strong
unpretending man of simple habits, more like
IN A SICK ROOM. 27
an athletic curate in his dress and bearing than
lil^e a fashionable preacher.
Of course it goes without saying that he
was ostracised by the preachers of his own
maternal Church, the Church of England ; so
that he added the consciousness of sweet and
painless martyrdom to that of popular success
Attacks upon him appeared from time to time
in the less important religious journals ; but
the great organs of the national creed treated
him and his performances with silent con-
tempt.
He was seated in his study one morning in
early summer, reading one of the attacks to
which I have just alluded, when Miss Craik
was shown in. He sprang up to welcome her,
with outstretched hands.
' I want you to come with me at once,' she
28 THE NEW ABELARD.
said. ' Agatlia Combe is worse, and I should
like you to see her.'
' Of course T will come,' answered Bradley.
' But I thought she was almost ]-ecovered? '
' She has Imd a relapse ; not a serious one,
I trust, but I am a little alarmed about lier.
She talks so curiously.'
' Indeed ! '
' Yes ; about dying. She says she has a
presentiment that she won't hve. Poor
Agatha ! When she talks like that, it is strange
indeed.'
LeaviDg the house together, Bradley and
Alma entered Eegent's Park. Their way lay
right across, towards the shady sides of Prim-
rose Hill, where Miss Combe was then residing.
The day was fair and sunny, and there was
an unusual number of pleasure- seekers and
IN A SICK ROOM. 29
pedestrians in the park. A number of boys
were playing cricket on the spaces allotted for
that recreation, nursemaids and children were
sprinkled everywhere, and near the gate of the
Zoological Gardens, which they passed, a brass
band was merrily performing. Bradley's heart
was lig;ht, and he looked round on the brifjht
scene witli a kindling eye, in the full pride
of his physical strength and intellectual
vigour.
' After all,' he said, ' those teacliers are
wise who proclaim that health is happiness.
What a joyful world it would be if everyone
were well and strong.'
' Ah yes ! ' said his companion. ' But when
sickness comes '
She sighed heavily, for she was thinking of
her friend Ai:^atha Combe.
30 THE NEW ABELARD.
*I sometimes think that the sum of human
misery is trifling compared to that of human
happiness,' pursued the clergyman. ' Unless
one is a downright pessimist, a very Schopen-
hauer, surely one must see that the preponder-
ance is in favour of enjoyment. Look at these
ragged boys — how merry they are ! There is
not so much wretchedness in the world, per-
haps, as some of us imagine.'
She glanced at him curiously, uncertain
wliither his thoughts were tending. He speedily
made his meaning plain.
' Eeligion and Sorrow have hitheito gone
hand in hand, vanishing through the gate of
the grave. But why should not Eeligion and
Joy be united this side the last mystery ? Why
should not this world be the Paradise of all our
dreams ? '
IN A SICK ROOM 31
' It can never be so, Ambrose,' replied
Alma, ' until we can abolish Death.'
' And we can do that in a measure ; that is
to say, w^e can abolish premature decay, sick
ness, disease. Look what Science has done in
fifty years ! More than other-worldliness has
done in a thousand ! When Death comes
gently, at the natural end of life, it generally
comes as a blessing — as the last sacrament of
peace. I think if I could live man's allotted
term, useful, happy, loving and beloved, I
could be content to sleep and never wake
again.'
Alma did not answer. Her thoughts were
wandering, or she would have shrunk to find
her idolised teacher turning so ominously to-
wards materialism. But indeed it was not the
first time that Bradley's thoughts had drifted in
32 THE NEW ABELARD.
that direction. It is not in moments of per-
sonal happiness or success that we lean with
any eagerness towards the supernatural.
Glimpses of a world to come are vouchsafed
chiefly to those who weep and those who fail ;
and in proportion as the radiance of this
life brightens, fades the faint aurora of the
other.
In a small cottage, not far from Chalk
Farm, they found Miss Combe. She was stay-
ing, as her custom was, with friends, the friends
on this occasion being the editor of an evening
paper and his wife ; and she had scarcely
arrived on her visit — some weeks before —
when she had begun to ail. She was sitting up
when Alma arrived, in an armchair drawn close
to the window of a little back parlour, com-
manding a distant view of Hampstead Hill.
IN A SICK ROOM. 23
Wrapt iu a loose dressiDg-gown, and lean-
ing back in her chair, she was just touched by
the spring sunshine, the brightness of whicli
even the smoke from the great city could not
subdue. She did not seem to be in pain, but
her face was pale and flaccid, her eyes were
heavy and dull. Her ailment was a weakness
of the heart's action, complicated with internal
malady of another kind.
Tears stood in Alma's eyes as she embraced
and kissed her old friend.
'I have brought Mr. Bradley to see you,'
she cried. 'L am glad to see you looking so
much better.'
Mss Combe smiled and held out her hand
to Bradley, who took it gently.
' When you came in,' she said, ' I was half
dreaming. I thought I was a little chikl
VOL. II. D
34 THE NEW ABELARD.
again, playing with brother Tom in the old
chiu-chyard at Tavitou. Tom has only just
gone out ; he has been here all the morning.'
Said brother Tom, the unwashed apostle
of the Hall of Science, had left unmistakable
traces of his presence, for a strong odour of
bad tobacco pervaded the room.
' It seems like old times,' proceeded the
little lady, with a sad smile, ' to be sick, and
to be visited by a clergyman. I shall die in
the odour of sanctity after all.'
' You must Lot talk of dying,' cried Alma.
' You will soon be all right again.'
' I'm afraid not, dear,' answered Miss
Combe. ' I saw my mother's face again last
night, and it never stayed so long. I take
it as a warning that I shall soon be called
away.'
IN A SICK ROOM 35
Strange enough it seemed to bot]i those
who hstened, to hear a person of Miss Combe's
advanced views talking in the vocabulary of
commonplace superstition.
' Don't think I am repining,' she continued.
' If I were not ripe, do you think I should
be gathered? I am going where we all
must go — who knows whither? and, after
all, I've had a " good time," as the Yankees
say. Do you beheve, Mr. Bradley,' she
added, turning her keen, grave eyes on
the clergyman, ' that an atheist can be a
spiritualist, and hold relations with an unseen
world ? '
' You are no atheist, Mis» Coinbe,' he
answered. 'God forbid!'
' I don't know,' was the reply. ' I am. not
one in the same degree as my brother Tom,
D 2
36 THE NEW ABELARD.
of course ; but I am afraid I liave no living
faith beyond the region of ghosts and fairies.
The idea of Deity is incomprehensible to me,
save as that of tlie " magnified non-natural
IMan " my teachers have lonfj aso discarded.
I think I might still understand the anthro-
pomorphic God of my childhood, but having
lost Him 1 can comprehend no other.'
' The other is not far to seek,' responded
Bradley, bending towards her, and speaking
eagerly. ' You will find him in Jesus Christ
— the living, breathing godhead, whose touch
and inspiration we all can feel.'
' I'm afraid / can't,' said Miss Combe. ' I
can understand Jesus the man, but Christ the
God, who walked in the flesh and was cruci-
fied, is beyond the horizon of my conception —
even of my sympathy.'
TN A SICK ROOM. 37
' Don't say that,' crieJ Alma. ' I am sure
you believe in our loving Saviour.'
Miss Combe did not reply, but turned her
face wearily to tlie spring sunlight.
' If there is no other hfe,' she said, after
a long pause, ' the idea of Jesus Christ is a
mockery. Don't you think so, Mr. Bradley ? '
' Not altogether,' replied Bradley, after a
moment's hesitation. ' If the life we live here
were all, if, after a season, we vanished like
the flowers, we should still need the comfort
of Christ's message — his injunction to "love
one another." The central idea of Christianity
is peace and good fellowship ; and if our life
had raised itself to that ideal of love, it would
be an ideal life, and its brevity would be of
little consequence.'
Miss Combe smiled. Her keen intelligence
58 THE NEW A BE LARD.
went right into the speaker's mind, and saw the
true meaning of that shallow optimism. Brad-
ley noticed the smile, and coloured slightly
under the calm, penetrating gaze of the little
woman.
'I have always been taught to believe,'
said Miss Combe, quietly, ' that the true
secret of the success of Christianity was its
heavenly promise — its pledge of a future
life.'
* Of course,' cried Alma.
' Certainly that promise was given,' said
Bradley, ' and I have no doubt that, in some
way or another, it will be fulfilled.'
'What do you mean by in some way or
another ? ' asked Mss Combe.
' I mean that Christ's Heaven may not be
a heaven of physical consciousness, but of
IN A SICK ROOM. 39
painless and passive perfection ; bringing to
the weary peace and fbrgetfulness, to the
happy absolute absorption into the eternal
and unconscious life of God.'
' Nirwana, in short ! ' said Miss Combe,
dryly. 'Well, for my own part, I should
not care so much for so sleepy a Paradise. I
postulate a heaven where I should meet and
know my mother, and where the happy cry
of livincf creatures would rise like a fountain
into the clear azure for evermore.'
' Surely,' said Bradley, gently, ' we all hope
as much ! '
' But do we believe it ? ' returned Miss
Combe. ' That is the question. All human
experience, all physiology, all true psychology,
is against it. The letter of the eternal Uni-
verse, written on the open Book of Astronomy,
40 THE NEW ABELARD.
speaks of eternal death and cliange. Shall we
survive while systems perish, while suns go
out like sparks, and the void is sown with the
wrecks of worn-out worlds ? '
In this strain the conversation continued
for some little time longer. Seeing the in-
valid's tender yearning, Bradley spoke yet
more hopefully of the great Christian promise,
describing the soul as imperishable, and the
moral order of the universe as stationary and
secure ; but what he said was half-hearted,
and carried with it no conviction. He felt for
the first time the helplessness of a transcen-
dental Christianity, like his own. Presently
he returned, almost unconsciously, to the point
from which he had set forth.
' There is something, j)erhaps,' he said, ' in
the Positivist conception of mankind as one
IN A SICK ROOM. 41
ever-changing and practically deathless Being.
Thougli men perish, Man survives. Children
spring like flowers in the dark footprints of
Death, and in them the dead inherit the
world.'
'That creed would possibly suit me,' re-
tuned Miss Combe, smihng sadly again, ' if I
were a mother, if I were to live again in my
own offspring. I'm afraid it is a creed with
little comfort for childless men, or for old
maids like myself! No; my selfishness
requires something much more tangible. If
I am frankly told that I must die, that con-
sciousness ceases for ever with the physical
breath of life, I can understand it, and accept
my doom ; it is disagreeable, since I am rather
fond of life and activity, but I can accept it.
It is no consolation whatever to reflect that I
42 THE NEW ABELARD.
;ini to exist vicariously, without consciousness
of the fact, in other old maids to come ! The
condition of moral existence is — conscious-
ness ; without ihat^ I shall be practically
abolished. Such a creed, as the other you
have named, is simple materialism, disguise it
as you will.'
'I am not preaching Positivism,' cried
Bradley ; ' God forbid ! I only said there was
something in its central idea. Christ's promise
is that we shall live again ! Can we not accept
that promise, w^ithout asking " how ? " '
' No, we can't ; that is to say, / can't. It is
the " how " which forms the puzzle. Besides,
the Bible expressly speaks of the resurrection
of the body.'
' A poetical expression,' suggested Bradley.
'Yes; but something more,' persisted the
9
IN A SICK ROOM. 43
little woman. ' I can't conceive an existence
without those physical attributes with which I
was born. When I think of my dead mother,
it is of the very face and form I used to know ;
the same eyes, the same sweet lips, the same
smile, the same touch of loving hands. Either
we shall exist again as we are, or '
' Of course we shall so exist,' broke in
Alma, more and more nervous at the turn the
conversation was taking. ' Is it not all beauti-
fully expressed in St. Paul ? We sow a physi-
cal body, we shall reap a spiritual body ; but
they will be one and the same. But pray do
not talk of it any more. You are not dying,
dear, thank God ! '
Half an hour later Bradley and Alma left
the house together.
' I am sorry dear Agatlia has not more
44 THE NEW ABELARD.
iailli,' said Alma, tlioughtfuUy, as they wau-
derecl back towards the park.
' I think she has a great deal,' said Bradley,
quickly. ' But I was shocked to see her look-
ing so ill and worn. Is she having good
medical advice ? '
' The best in London. Dr. Harley sees her
nearly every day. Poor Agatha ! Slie has
not had too much happiness in tliis world.
She has worked so hard, and all alone ! '
They entered the park gate, and came
again among the greenness and the sunshine.
Everything seemed light and happiness, and
the air had that indescribable sense of resur-
rection in it which comes with tlie early shin-
ing of the primrose and the reawakening of
the year. Bradley glanced at his companion.
Never had she seemed so bright and beautiful !
IN A SICK ROOM, 45
With the flush of the rose on her cheek, and
her eyes full of pensive light, she moved lightly
and gracefully at his side.
A lark rose from the grass not far away,
and warbled ecstatically overhead. Bradley
felt his blood stir and move like sap in the
bough at the magic touch of the season, and
with kindling eyes he drew nearer to his com-
panion's side.
'Well, dearest, you were a true prophet,'
he said, taking her hand and drawing it softly
within his arm. 'It has all come to pass,
through you. The New Church flourishes in
spite of those who hate all things new ; and I
have you — you only — to thank for it all.'
' I want no thanks,' replied Alma. ' It is
reward enough to forward the good work, and
to make you happy.'
46 THE NEW ABELARD.
' IIap})y ? Yes, I ouglit to be happy, should
I not ? '
' And you are, I hope, dear Ambrose ! '
' Yes, I think so. Only sometimes — on a
day like this, for example — I cannot help
looking back with a sigh to the dear old times
at Fensea. A benediction seems to rest upon
t'le quiet country life, which contented me then
so little. I miss the peaceful fields, the lone-
liness and rest of the fens, the silence of the
encirchng sea! '
' And Goody Tilbury's red cloak ! ' cried
Alma, smiling. ' And the scowl of Summer-
hayes the grocer, and the good Bishop's
blessing ! '
' Ah, but after all the life was a gentle one
till I destroyed it. The poor souls loved me,
till I became too much for them. And then.
IN A SICK ROOM. ■ 47
Alma, the days with you I Your first coming,
hke a ministering angel, to make this sordid
earth seem like a heavenly dream ! To-day,
dearest, it almost seems as if my heaven was
behind, and not before, me ! I should like to
live those blissfid moments over again — every
one! '
Alma laughed outright, for she had a vivid
remembrance of her friend's infinite vexations
as a country clergyman.
' That's right,' he said, smiling fondly ;
' laugh at me, if you please, but I am quite
serious in what I say. Here, in the great
world of London, though we see so much of
one another, we do not seem quite so closely
united as we did yonder.'
'Not so united!' she cried, all her sweet
face clouded in a moment.
48 THE NEW ABELARD.
'Well, united as before, but clifTereutly.
In the constant storm and stress of my
occupation, there is not the same pastoral
consecrjition.
The woi'ld is too much with us ; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
In those days, dearest,' he added, sinking his
voice to a whisjoer, ' we used to speak oftener
of love, we used to dream — did we not ? — of
beinc? man and wife.'
She drooped her gentle eyes, which had
been fixed upon him earnestly, and coloured
softly ; then, with a pretty touch of coquetry,
lauii^lied ac^ain.
' I am not jealous,' she said, ' and since you
have another bride '
' Another bride ! ' he repeated, with a
startled look of surprise.
IN A SICK ROOM. 49
' I mean your Cliurcb,' she said gaily.
' Ah yes,' he said, reheved. ' But do you
know I find this same bride of mine a some-
what dull companion, and a poor exchange,
at any rate, for a bride of flesh and blood.
Dearest, I have been thinking it all over !
Why should we not realise our old dream, and
live in love together ? '
Alma stood silent. They were in a lonely
part of the park, in a footway winding through
its very centre. Close at hand was one of the
wooden benches. With beating heart and
heightened colour, she strolled to the seat and
sat down.
Bradley followed, placed himself l)y her
side, and gently took her hand.
'Well?' he said.
She turned her head and looked quietly
VOL. II. E
50 THE NEW ABELARD.
into his eves. Her grave fond look brought
the bright blood to his own cheeks, and jnst
glancing round to see that they were un-
observed, he caught her in his arms and kissed
her passionately — on lips that kissed again,
' Shall it be as I wish ? ' he exclaimed.
'• Yes, Ambrose,' she answered. ' What
you wish, I wish too ; now as always, your will
is my law.'
' And when ? '
' When you please,' she answered. ' Only
before I marry you, you must promise me one
thing.'
' Yes ! yes ! '
' To regard me still as only your hand-
maid ; to look upon your Church always as
your true Bride, to whom you are most deeply
bound.'
IN A SICK ROOM. 51
' I'll try, dear ; but will you be very angry
if I sometimes forget her, when I feel your
loving arms around me ? '
' Very angry,' she said, smihng radiantly,
upon him.
They rose up, and walked on together
hand in hand.
i: 2
THE NEW ABELARD.
CHAPTER Xni.
A RUNAWAY COUPLE.
Ambrose Bradley returned home that day
hke a man in a dream ; and it was not till he
had sat for a long time, thinking alone, that he
completely realised what he had done. But
the state of things which led to so amatory a
crisis had been going on for a long time ;
indeed, the more his worldly prosperity
increased, and the greater his social influence
grew, the feebler became his spiritual resistance
to the temptation against which he had fought
so long.
It is the tendency of all transcendental forms
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 53
of thought, even of a transcendental Christianity,
to relax the moral fibre of their recipient, and
to render vague and indetennined his general
outlook upon life. The harshest possible
Calvinism is bracing and invigorating, com-
pared with any kind of creed with a terminology
purely subjective.
Bradley's belief was liberal in the extreme
in its construction, or obliteration, of religious
dogmas ; it soon became equally liberal, or lax,
in its conception of moral sanctions. The man
still retained, and was destined to retain till
the end of his days, the very loftiest conception
of human duty. His conscience, in every act
of existence, was the loadstone of his deeds.
But the most rigid conscience, relying entirely
on its own insight, is liable to corruption.
Certainly Bradley's was. He had not advanced
54 THE NEW ABELARD.
very far along the easy path which leads to
agnosticism, before he had begun to ask himself
— What, after all, is the moral law ? are not
certain forms of self-sacrifice Quixotic and
unnecessary? and, finally, why should I live
a life of martyrdom, because my path was
crossed in youth by an unworthy woman ?
Since that nocturnal meeting after his visit
to the theatre, Bradley had seen nothing of
Mrs. Montmorency, but he had ascertained that
she was spending the greater part of her time
somewhere abroad. Further investigations,
pursued through a private inquiry office, con-
vinced him of two things : first, that there was
not the faintest possibility of the lady voluntarily
crossing his path again, and, second, that his
secret was perfectly safe in the keeping of one
whom its disclosure might possibly ruin.
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 55
Satisfied thus far of liis security, he had torn
that dark leaf out of his book of life, and
thrown it away into the waters of forgetfulness.
Then, with his growing sense of mastery,
grev7 Alma's fascination.
She could not conceal, she scarcely attempted
to conceal, the deep passion of worship with
which she regarded him. Had he been a man
ten times colder and stronger, he could scarcely
have resisted the spell. As it was, he did not
resist it, but drew nearer and nearer to the
sweet spirit who wove it, as we have seen.
One sunny morning, about a month after
the occurrence of that little love scene in
Eegent's Park, Bradley rose early, packed a
small hand valise, and drove off in a hansom
to Victoria Station. He was quietly attired in
clothes not at all clerical in cut, and witliout
56 THE NEW ABELARD.
the white neckcloth or any other external badge
of his profession.
Arriving at the station, he found himself
just in time to catch the nine o'clock train to
Eussetdeane, a lonely railway station taking its
name from a village three miles distant,
lying on the direct line to Eastbourne and
Newhaven. He took his ticket, and entered a
first-class carriage as the train started. The
carriage had no other occupant, and, leaning
back in his seat, he was soon plunged in deep
reflection.
At times his brow was knitted, his face
darkened, showing that his thoughts were
gloomy and disturbed enough ; but ever and
anon, his eyes brightened, and his features
caught a gleam of joyful expectation. When-
ever the train stopped, which it did very fre-
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 57
quently, lie shrank back in his corner, as if
dreading some scrutinising eye ; but no one
saw or heeded him, and no one entered the
carriage Avhich he occupied alone.
At last, after a journey of about an hour
and a half, the train stopped at Eussetdeane.
It was a very lonely station indeed, quite
primitive in its arrangements, and surrounded
on every side by green hills and white quarries
of chalk. An infirm porter and a melancholy
station-master officiated on the platform, but
when Bradley alighted, valise in hand, who
should step smilingly up to him but Alma,
prettily attired in a quiet country costume, and
rosy with the sweet country air.
The train steamed away ; porter and
station-master standing stone still, and Avatch-
ing it till the last faint glimpse of it faded in
58 THE NEW ABELARD.
the distance ; tlien they looked at each other,
seemed to awake from a trance, and slowly
approached the solitary passenger and his
companion.
' Going to Eussetdeane, meastcr ? ' demanded
the porter, wheezilj'-, while tlie station-master
looked on from the lofty heights of his superior
position.
Bradley nodded, and handed over his
valise. ,
' I have a fly outside the station,' explained
Alma ; and passing round the platform and
over a wooden foot-bridge, to platform and
offices on the other side, they found the fly in
question — an antique structure of tlie post-
chaise species, drawn by two ill-groomed horses,
a white and a roan, and driven by a preter-
natuniUy old boy of sixteen or seventeen.
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 59
' At what hour does the next down train
pass to Newhaven ? ' asked Bradley, as he
tipped the porter, and took his seat by Alma's
side.
' The down-train, measter ? ' repeated the
old man. ' There be one at three, and another
at five. Be you a-going on ? '
Bradley nodded, and the fly drove slowly
away along the country road. The back of
the boy's head was just visible over the front
part of the vehicle, which was vast and deep ;
so Bradley's arm stole round his companion's
waist, and they exchanged an affectionate
kiss.
' I have the licence in my pocket, dearest,'
he whispered. ' Is all arranged ? '
' Yes. The clergyman of the parish is such
a dear old man, and quite sympathetic. He
6o THE NEW ABELARD.
thinks it is an elopement, and as he ran away
with his own wife, who is twenty years
younger than himself, he is sympathy itself! '
'Did he recognise my name, when you
mentioned it ? '
'Not a bit,' answered Alma, laujihinor.
' He lives too far out of the world to know
anything or anybody, and, as I told you, he is
eighty years of age. I really think he believes
that Queen Victoria is still an unmarried lady,
and he talks about Bonaparte just as if it were
sixty years ago.'
' Alma ! '
' Yes, Ambrose ! '
' You don't mind this secret marriage ? '
' Not at all — since it is your wish.'
' I think it is better to keep the affair
private, at least for a little time. You know
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 6i
how I hate publicity, in a matter so sacred ;
and since we are all in all to each other '
He drew her still closer and kissed her
again. As he did so, he was conscious of a
curious sound as of suppressed laughter, and,
glancing up, he saw the eyes of the weird boy
intently regarding him.
' Well, what is it ? ' cried Bradley, im-
patiently, while Alma shrank away blushing
crimson.
The eyes of the weird boy did not droop,
nor was he at all abashed. Still indulging in
an internal chuckle, like the suppressed croak
of a young raven, he pulled his horses up,
and pointed with his whip towards the distant
country prospect.
' There be Russetdeane church spire ! ' he
said.
62 THE NEW ABELARD.
Bradley glanced impatiently in the direc
tion so indicated, and saw, peeping through a
cluster of trees, some two miles off, the spire
in question.
He nodded, and ordered the boy to drive
on. Then turning to Alma, he saw her eyes
twinkling with merry laughter.
' You see we are found out already ! ' she
whispered. 'He thinks we are a runaway
couple, and so, after all, we are.'
The carriage rumbled along for another
mile, and ever and anon they caught the eyes
of the weird boy, peeping backward ; but
being forewarned, they sat, primly enough,
upon their good behavioiu*.
Suddenly the carriage stopped again.
' Missis ! ' croaked the weird boy.
' Well ? ' said Alma, smiling up at him.
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 63
ft
' Where be I a-driving to ? Back to the
"Wheatsheaf"?'
' No ; right to the church door,' answered
Alma, laughing.
The boy did not reply, but fixing his
weather eye on Bradley, indulged in a wink of
such preternatural meaning, that Alma was
once more convulsed with laughter. Then,
after giving vent to a prolonged whistle, he
cracked his whip, and urged his horses on.
Through green lanes, sweet with hanging
honeysuckle and sprinkled with flowers of
early summer ; past sleepy ponds, covered
with emerald slime and haunted by dragon
flies ghttering like gold ; along upland stretches
of broad pasture, commanding distant views
of wood-land, thorpe and river ; they passed
along that sunny summer day ; until at last,
64 THE NEW ABELARD.
creeping along an avenue of ashes and flower-
ing limes, they came to the gate of an old
church, where the carriage stopped.
The lovers alighted, and ordering the boy
to remain in attendance, approached the
cliurch — a time-worn, rain-stained edifice half
smothered in ivy, and with rooks cawing from
its belfry tower.
They were evidently expected. The clerk,
a little old man who walked with a stick, met
them at the church door, and informed them
that the clergyman was waiting for them in
the vestry.
A few minutes later, the two were made
man and wife — the soHtary spectator of the
ceremony, except the officials, being the weird
boy, who had stolen from his seat, and left his
horses waiting in the road, in order to see what
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 65
was going on. The clergyman, ancient and
time-worn as his church, mumbled a benedic-
tion, and, after subscribing their names in the
register and paying the customary fees, they
shook hands with him, and came again out
into the sunshine.
AVhatever the future misht brins; forth to
cloud her marriage path, that bridal morning
was like a dream of paradise to Alma Craik.
In a private room of the old ' Wheatsheaf,' a
room sweet with newly-cut flowers, and over-
lookino- orchards stretchincf down to the banks
of a pretty river, they breakfasted, or lunched,
together — on simple fare, it is true, but with
all things clean and pure. A summer shower
passed over the orchards as they sat by the
open window hand in hand ; and then, as
the sun flashed out again, the trees dript
VOL. II. F
66 THE NEW ABELARD.
diamonds, and the long grass glittered with
golden dew.
'How sweet and still it is here, my dar-
ling ! I wish we could stay in sucli a spot for
ever, and never return again to the dreary city
and the busy world.'
She crept to his side as he spoke, and
rested her head upon his shoulder.
' Are you happy now, dear Ambrose ? '
' Quite happy,' he replied.
Presently a buxom serving maid tript in to
say that the carriage was waiting : and, de-
scending to the door, they found the vehicle,
with Alma's travelling trunk and the clergy-
man's valise upon the box. The weird boy
was still there, jubilant. SomeTiow or other he
had procured a large white rosette, which he
had pinned to the breast of his coat. Two or
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 67'
three sleepy village folk, whom the news of
the w^edding had partially aroused from their
chronic state of torpor, were clustering on the
pavement; and the landlord and landlady
stood at the door to wish the strange couple
God speed.
Away they drove, while one of the
slumberous villagers started a feeble cheer.
Through the green lanes, along the grassy up-
lands, they passed back to the railway station,
which they reached just in time to catch, as
they had planned, the down train to New-
haven.
That afternoon they crossed by the tidal
boat to Dieppe, where, in a brand-new hotel
facing the sea, they slept that night. They
were almost the only visitors, for the summer
Ijathing season had scarcely begun, and they
¥ 2
68 THE NEW ABELARD.
would have found the place cheerless enough
had they been in a less happy mood of mind.
The next day found them wandering about
the picturesque old town, visiting the wharves
and tlie old churches, and strolling on the
deserted esplanade which faced the sea. They
thought themselves unsuspected, but somehow
everyone knew their secret — that they were a
married couple on their honeymoon. When
they returned to the hotel to lunch, they found
a bunch of orange-blossoms on the table, placed
there by the hands of a sympathetic landlady.
' We must go on farther,' said Bradley,
rather irritably. ' I suppose the newly-married
alight here often, and being experts in that
sort of commodity, they recognise it at a
glance.'
So that afternoon they went on to Eouen,
A RUNAWAY COUPLE. 69
where they arrived as the sun was setting on
that town of charming bridges. When their
train reached the station, a train arrived ahnost
simultaneously from Paris, and as there was
a ten minutes' interval for both upward and
downward passengers, the platform was
thronged.
Bradley passed through the crowd, with
Alma hanging upon his arm. He looked
neither to right nor left, but seemed bent on
passing out of the station ; and he did not
notice a dark-eyed lady by whom he was
evidently recognised.
On seeing him, she started and drew back
among the crowd, leading by the hand a little
boy. But when he had passed she looked after
him, and more particularly after his beautiful
comDanion.
70 THE NEW ABELARD.
' It is he, sure enough ! ' she muttered
' But who is that styHsh party in his company ?
I should very much hke to know.'
The lady was ' Mrs. Montmorency,' clad
like a wddow in complete weeds, and travelling
with her little boy, also dressed in funeral
black, from Paris to London.
71
CHAPTEE XIV.
A MYSTERY.
Bradley and his bride were only absent from
London five days ; no one missed them, and of
com"se no one suspected that they had gone
away in company. Before the next Sunday
came round, they were living just as before —
she in her own rooms, he in the residence at
Eegent's Park. This was the arrangement
made between them, the clei^gyman's plea
being that it was better to keep their marriage
secret for a time, until the New Church was
more safely established in public estimation.
72 THE NEW ABELARD.
Quite happy in the loving secret between them,
Ahna had acquiesced without a word.
Their only confidant, for the time being,
was Miss Combe, who was then staying at
Hastings, and to whom Alma wrote in the fol-
lowing terms :
' Dearest Agatha, — It is all over, and we
are man and wife. No one in the world is to
know but you^ yet awhile. I know you will
keep our secret, and rejoice in our happiness.
' It was all decided very hastily. Ambrose
thought it better to marry secretly, thinking
(foohsh man !) that many would misunderstand
his motives, and believing that, as an unmarried
person, he can better pursue the good work to
which we are both devoted. After all, it
matters very little. For years we have been
one in soul, as you know ; and what God long
A MYSTERY. 72
ago joined man could never have put asunder.
Still, it is sweet to know tliat my hero, my
apostle, my Abelard — as I call him, is entirely
mine, for richer, for poorer, for better, for
worse. I am very happy, dear ; proud and
hopeful, too, as a loving wife can be.
' Write and tell me that you are better.
Surely this bright weather should complete
your cure, and drive those gloomy thoughts
away? In a few days I shall come and see
you ; perhaps we may come together. So I
won't wTite good bye, but au revoir !
' Your loving friend,
'Alma Bradley.
' P.S. — My cousin George is back in town.
Just fancy how he would scowl if he were to
read the above signature.^
It so happened that George Craik,
74 THE NEW ABELARD.
although he was not so favoured as to read
his cousin's signature as a married woman,
and although he had no suspicion whatever
as yet that she had entered, as she imagined,
into the holy estate of matrimony, was
scowling in his least amiable frame of mind
about the time when Alma wrote the above
letter. He had returned to London from
Paris a good deal mystified, for, having pro-
cured an interview with Mrs. Montmorency,
whom (as the reader knows) he had gone
over to see, he had ehcited nothing from
that lady but a flat denial of any knowledge
of or connection with his rival the clergy-
man.
So he came back at once, baffled but not
beaten, took to the old club life, attended the
different race meetings, and resumed altogether
he life of a young gentleman about town.
A MYSTERY. 75
But although he saw little of liis cousin,
he (as he himself figuratively expressed it
' kept his eye upon her.' The more he read
about Bradley and his doings— -which appeared
shocking indeed to his unsophisticated mind —
the more indignant he felt that Alma, and her
fortune, should ever be thrown away on one so
unworthy. Meantime he was in the unenviable
position of a man surrounded by duns and
debts. He had bills out in the hands of the
Jews, and he saw no prospect whatever of
meeting them. Having far exceeded the very
liberal allowance given him by his father, he
knew that there was no hope of assistance
in that direction. His only chance of social
resuscitation was a wealthy marriage, and with
his cousin hanging like a tempting bait before
him, he felt like a very Tantalus, miserable,
indignant and ill-used.
76 THE NEW ABELARD.
His rooms were iu the Albany, and here
one morning his father fomid him, sitting over
a late breakfast.
' Well, George,' said the baronet, standing
on the hearthrug and glancing round at the
highly suggestive prints which adorned the
walls ; ' well, George, how long is this to
last ? '
The young man glanced up gloomily as he
sipt his coffee.
' What do you mean .^ ' he demanded.
'You know very well. But just look at
this letter, which I have received, from a man
called Tavistock, this morning.'
And he tossed it over the table to his son.
George took it up, looked at it, and flushed
crimson. It was a letter informing Sir George
Craik that the writer held in his hands a dis-
A MYSTERY. 77
honoured acceptance of his son's for the sum of
three hundred pounds, and that unless it Avas
taken up within a week proceedings in bank-
ruptcy would be instituted.
' D the Jew ! ' cried George. ' I'll
wring his neck ! He had no right to write to
you ! '
' I suppose he thought it was the only way,'
returned the baronet ; ' but he is quite out in
his calculations. If you suppose that I shall
pay any more of your debts you are mistaken.
I am quite tired of it all. You have played
all your cards wrong and must take the con-
sequences.'
George scowled more furiously than ever,
but made no immediate reply. After a pause,
however, he said in an injured way —
' I don't know what you mean by playing
78 THE NEW ABELARD^
my cards wrong. I have clone m}^ best. If
my cousin Alma has given me the cold
shoulder, because she has gone cranky on
rehgion, it is no fault of mine.'
' I am not astonished that she has thrown
you over,' cried Sir George. ' What possible
interest could a young girl of her disposition
find in a fellow who bets away his last shilling,
and covers his room with pictures of horses
and portraits of jockeys and ballet girls .^ If
you had had any common sense, you might at
least have pretended to take some interest in
her pursuits.'
'I'm not a hypocrite,' retorted George,
' and I can't talk atheism.'
' Eubbish ! You know as well as I do
that Alma is a higli-spirited girl, and only
wants humouring. These new-fangled ideas
A MYSTERY. 79
of liers are absurd enough, but irritating
opposition will never lead her to get rid
of them.'
• She's in love with that fellow Bradley ! '
' Nothing of the kind. She is in love with
her own wild fancies, which he is wise enough
to humour, and you are indiscreet enough to
oppose. If there had been anything serious
between them, a marriage would have come
off long ago ; but, absurd as Alma is, she
is not mad enough to throw herself away on a
mere adventurer like that, without a penny in
the world.'
' 'What is a fellow to do ? ' pleaded George,
dolefully. ' She snubs me more than ever ! '
' The more she snubs you the more you
ought to pursue her. Show your devotion
to her — go to the church — seem to be inte-
8o THE NEW ABELARD.
rested in lier crotchets — and take my word for
it, her sympathies will soon turn in your
direction.'
Father and son continued to talk for some
time in the same strain, and after an hour's
conversation Sir George went away in a better
lumiour. George drest himself carefully, and
when it was about midday hailed a cab and
was driven down to the Gaiety Theatre, where
he had an appointment with Miss Dottie
Destrange. The occasion was one of those
matinees when aspiring amateurs attempt to
take critical opinion by storm, and the de-
butante this time was a certain Mrs. Temple
Grainger, who was to appear as ' Juliet ' in the
Hunchback, and afterwards as ' Juliet ' in the
famous balcony scene of Shakespeare's play.
Mrs. Grainger, whose husband was somewhere
A MYSTERY. 8i
in the mysterious limbo of mysterious hus-
bands, called India, was well known in a
certain section of society, and no less a person
than His Eoyal Highness the Prince of Wales
had promised to be present at her debut.
George was to join Miss Destrange in the
stalls, where he duly found her, and was
greeted with a careless smile. The seats all
round were thronged with well-known
members of society ; actresses, actors, critics.
The Prince was already in his box, and the
curtain was just ringing up.
It is no part of my business to chronicle
the success or failure of Mrs. Temple
Grainger ; but, if cheers and floral offerings
signify anything, she was in high favoiu' with
her audience. At the end of the second act,
George Craik rose and surveyed the house
VOL. II. G
82 THE NEW ADELARD.
through ]-iis opera glass. As he did so, he
was conscious of a figure sakiting him from
one of the stage boxes, and to his surprise he
recognised — Mrs. Montmorency.
She was gorgeously drest in black, and
liberally painted and powdered. George
bowed to her carelessly ; when to his surprise
she beckoned him to her.
He rose from his seat and walked over to
the side of the stalls immediately underneath
her box. She leant over to him, and they
shook hands.
' Will you come in ? ' she said. ' I want to
speak to you.'
He nodded, passed round to the back of the
box, entered, and took a seat by the lady's side.
' I thought you were still in Paris,' he said.
'I came over about a fortnight ago,' she
A MYSTERY. - 83
replied. ' I suppose you have heard of liis
lordship's death ? '
' Yes. I saw it in the papers.'
' T waited till after the funeral, then I came
away. 'But we won't talk about that ; I've
hardly got over it yet. I've something else
to say to you.'
' Well ? '
' Do you remember a question you asked
me in Paris — whether I knew anything of a
clergyman of the name of Bradley who was
paying his addresses to your cousin ? '
' Of course I do ; and you said '
' That I only knew him very slightly.'
' Pardon me, but you said you didn't know
him at all ! '
'Did I? Then I made a slight mistake.
I do know the person you mean by sight ! '
G 2
84 THE NEW ABELARD.
George Craik looked at the speaker with
some astonishment, for he had a good
memory, and a very vivid recollection of
Avhat she had said to him during their
interview.
' I dare say I was distrait,' she continued,
with a curious smile and a Hash of her dark
eyes. ' I was in such trouble about poor
Ombermere. What I want to tell you is that
I saw Mr. Bradley the other day at Eouen, as
I was returnin"' from Paris,'
' At Eouen,' repeated George Craik.
' Yes, on the railway platform, in company
with a very charming lady, who was hanging
on his arm, and regarding him with very
evident adoration.'
George pricked up his ears Hke a little
terrier ; he smelt mischief of some sort.
A MYSTERY. 85
' I fancy you must be mistaken,' he said.
' Bradley is not likely to have been travelling
across the Channel.'
' I am not at all mistaken,' answered Mrs.
Montmorency. ' Mr. Bradley's appearance is
peculiar, his face especially, and I am sure it
-was himself What I want to find out is, who
was his companion? '
' I hardly see what interest that can be to
you,' observed George suspiciously, ' since you
only know him — by sight ! '
'The lady interested me. I was wonder-
ing if it could be your charming cousin.'
George started as if he had been shot.
' My Cousin Alma ! Impossible ! Surely
you don't know what you are saying ! '
'Oh yes, I do. Tell me, what is your
cousin like?'
86 THE NEW ABELARD.
After some slight further urging, George
described Ahna's personal appearance as
closely a< possible. Mrs. Montmorency
listened quietly, taking note of all the
details of the description. Then she tapped
George with her fan, and laughed outright.
' TJien I was right after all ! ' she cried.
' It was Miss Alma Craik — that's her name,
isn't it?'
' Yes ; but, good heavens, it is simply
impossible ! Alma in company with that
scoundrel, over there in France? You must
be mistaken ! '
But Mrs. Montmorency was quite certain
that she had made no mistake in the matter.
In her turn she described Alma's appearance
so minutely, so cleverly, that her companion
became lost in astonished belief. When the
A MYSTERY. 87
act drop was rung up, he sat staring like one
bewitched, seeing nothing, liearing nothing,
but gaziog wildly at Mrs, Montmorency.
Suddenly he rose to go.
' Don't go yet,' whispered the lady.
' I must — I can't stay ! ' he replied. ' I'll
find out from my cousin herself if what you
have told me is true.'
' ApresV
' Apres I ' echoed the young man, looking
livid. ' Why, apres, I'll have it out with the
man ! '
Mrs. Montmorency put her gloved hand
upon his arm.
' Don't do anything rash, mon cher,' she
said. ' I think you told me that you loved your
cousin, and that you would give a thousand
pounds to get her away from your rival ? '
8S THE NEW ABELARD.
* A tliousaiid ! twenty tliousand ! any-
thing ! '
' Suppose I could lielp you ? ' said Mrs.
Montmorency, smiling wickedly.
* Can you ? will you ? But how ! '
* You must give me time to think it over.
Find out, in the first place, if what I suspect
is true, and then come and tell me all about
it!'
George Craik promised, and hurriedly left
the theatre, without even waiting to say
farewell, or make any apologies, to Miss
Destrange. He was determined to call upon
his cousin without a moment's delay, and get,
if possible, to the bottom of the mystery of her
unaccountable appearance, accompanied by
Bradley, at the Eouen railway station.
89
CHAPTER XV.
THE COUSINS.
Madam, our house's bonour is in question !
I prithee, when you play at wantonness,
Remember that our blood floAvs clean and pure,
In one unbroken and immuddied line,
From crystal sources, I'm your champion,
Madam, against yourself! — The Will and the Way.
Geokge Craik was not the man to let the
grass grow under liis feet when he was moving
with set purpose to any object.
As we have already hinted, he possessed
a certain bull-dog tenacity, very dangerous to
his opponents. And now all the suspicions of
a nature naturally suspicious, all the spiteful-
ness of a disposition naturally spiteful, being
90 THE NEW ADELARD.
fully and unexpectedly aroused, his furious
instinct lu'ged him to seek, without a moment's
breathing-time, the presence of his refractory
cousin.
Coupled with his jealous excitement was a
lofty moral indignation.
The family credit was at stake — so at least
he assured himself — and he had a perfect right
to demand an explanation. Had he reflected
a little, he might have known that Alma was
the last perstni in the world to give any ex-
planation whatever if peremptorily demanded,
or to admit her cousin's right to demand it ;
her spirit was stubborn as his own, and her
attitude of intellectual superiority was, he
should have known by old experience, quite
invincible.
Quitting the theatre, he leapt into a
THE COUSINS. 91
hansom, and was driven direct to Alma's
rooms. It was by this time about five in the
afternoon, and he made certain of finding his
cousin at home.
He was mistaken. Miss Craik was out,
and had been out the greater part of the day.
' Do you know where I can find her ? ' he
asked of the domestic, a smart servant maid.
' I don't know, sir,' was the reply. ' She
went out in the morning with Mr. Bradley,
and has not been home to lunch.'
' Does she dine at home ? '
' Yes, sir — at seven.'
' Then I will wait for her.' And so saying
he walked into the drawing-room and sat
down.
He had cooled a little by this time, and
before Alma made her appearance he had time
92 THE NEW ABELARD.
to cool a good deal more. Fidgetting im-
patiently in his chair, he began to ask himself
how he could best approach the subject on
which he had come. He regretted now that
he had not called for his father and brought
him with him ; that, no doubt, would have
been the most diplomatic course to adopt.
The more he thought over the information he
had received, the more he questioned its
authenticity ; and if, after all, the actress had
made a mistake, as he began to suspect and
fear, what a fool he would be made to look in
his cousin's eyes ! The -prospect of being made
to appear absurd sent a thrill of horror
through his blood; for this young person, as
has already been seen, dreaded, above all
things in the world, the shaft of ridicule.
Time slipped by, and George Craik grew
THE COUSINS. 93
more and more uneasy. At last seven o'clock
struck, and Alma had not appeared.
Growling to himself like an initable dog,
the young man rose and touched the electric
bell.
'My cousin is very late,' he said to the
servant when she appeared.
' Yes, sir ; she is very uncertain.'
' It is seven o'clock. You said she dined
at seven.'
' Yes, sir. But sometimes she does not
return to dinner, If she is not here at the
hour we don't expect her.'
George Craik uttered an angry exclama-
tion.
' Where the deuce can she be ? ' he cried,
scowling ominously.
' I can't say, sir,' returned the servant
94 THE NEW ABE LARD.
smiling. ' Miss Craik is most uncertain, as I
told you. She may be dining out — with Mr.
Bradley.'
The yomig man seized his hat, and began
striding up and down t]ie room. Then he
stopped, and seeing a curious smile still linger-
ing on the servant's face, said sharply :
' What are you laughing at .^ This is no
laughing matter. I tell you I must see my
cousin ! '
' I'm very sorry, sir, but '
George moved towards the door.
' I'U go and look for her,' he said. ' If she
returns before I find her, tell her I'll come the
first tiling in the morning.'
And, fuming savagely, he left the house.
His temper, never ver}^ amiable, was now
aroused to the extreme point of irritation, and
THE COUSINS. 95
the servant's suggestion that Alma might at
that very moment be in his rival's company
roused in him a certain frenzy. It was scan-
dalous; it was insufferable. If he coidd not
have it out that night with her, he would seek
the clergyman, and force him to some sort of
an avowal. Bent on that purpose, he hunied
away towards Bradley's house.
He passed on foot round Regent's Park,
and came to the neighbourhood of the New
Church and the adjoining house where Bradley
dwelt. It was quite dark now, and the out-
skirts of the park were quite deserted. As he
approached the house he saw the street-door
standing open, and heard the soimd of voices.
He pricked up his ears and drew back into the
shadow.
A light silvery laugh rose upon the air.
96 THE NEW ABELARD.
followed by the low, deep tones of a man's
voice. Then the door was closed, and two
figures stepped out into the road, crossing to
the opposite side, under the shadow of the trees.
They passed across the lamplight on the
other side of the way, and he recognised his
cousin's figure, arm-in-arm with that of the
clergyman. They passed on, laughing and
talking merrily together.
Keeping them well at a distance, he quietly
followed.
They passed round the park, following the
road by which he himself had come. Happy
and unsuspicious, they continued to talk as
they went ; and though he was not near
enough to follow their conversation, he heard
enough to show him that they were on the
tenderest and most loving terms.
THE COUSINS. 97
More than once he felt inclined to stride
forward, confront them, and have it out with
his rival ; but, his courage failing him, he
continued to follow like a spy. At last
they reached the quiet street where Alma
dwelt, and paused on the doorstep of her
house.
He drew back, waited, and listened.
' Will you not come in ? ' he heard his
cousin say.
He could not hear the reply, but it was
accompanied by a kiss and an embrace, which
made the jealous blood boil and burn along his
veins.
' Good-niglit, dearest ! ' said Alma.
' Good night, my darling ! ' answered the
deep voice of the clergyman.
Then the two seemed to embrace and kiss
VOL. II. H
98 THE NEW A BE LARD.
again, and the next moment the house door
opened and closed.
George Craik stepped forward, and stood
waiting on the pavement for Bradley to pass, .
right under the light of a street lamp. Almost
immediately Bradley came up quietly, and
they were face to face.
The clergyman started, and at first George
Craik thought that he was recognised ; but the
next moment Bradley passed by, without any
sign of recognition, and before the other could
make up his mind what to do, he was out of
sight.
George Craik looked at his watch ; it was
still early, and he determined at once to inter-
view his cousin. He knocked at the door and
asked for her ; she heard his voice and came
out into the lobby, charmingly attired in an
THE COUSINS. 99
evening dress of the ' crushed strawberry ' tint,
so much favoured by ladies of aesthetic lean-
ing. Never had she looked more bright and
beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes
sparkling, and she looked radiantly happy.
' Is it you, George ? ' she cried. ' What
brings you so late ? I hope no one is ill. My
uncle '
' 0, hes all right ! ' answered George,
entering the drawing-room. 'No one is ill,
or dead, or that kind of thing ; so make your
mind easy. Besides, it's only nine o'clock, and
you don't call that late, do you ? '
His manner was peculiar, and she noticed
that he haj'dly looked her in the face. Closing
the room door, she stood facing him on the
hearthrug, and by his side she looked a queen.
The miserable young man was immediately
H 2
loo THE NEW ABELARD.
submerged in the sense of inferiority irksome to
him, and he looked at once cowed and savage.
' Well, George, what is it ? ' continued
Alma. ' I suppose it's some new trouble about
yourself. Uncle told me the other day you
were rather worried about money, and I
offered to help you out of it if I could.'
George threw himself on a sofa and leant
forward, sucking the end of his cane.
' It isn't that,' he replied. ' If it were, you
know I shouldn't come to you.'
' Why not ? '
' Because I have no right, Alma ; you have
never given me any right. I hope you don't
think me mean enough to sponge upon you
because you happen, to be my cousin, and
much richer than I am ! But I am your
cousin, after all, and I think I have a right to
THE COUSINS. loi
protect yon, when I see yon likely to get into
tronble.'
This was quite a magnificent speech for
George Craik ; for anger and moral indignation
had made him eloquent. Alma looked down
upon him in all the pleasurable pride of her
beauty, half smiUng ; for to her poor George
was always a small boy, whose attempts to
lecture her were absurd. Her arms and neck
were bare, there were jewels on her neck and
heaving bosom, her complexion was dazzlingly
clear and bright, and altogether she looked
superb. There was a large mirror opposite to
her, covering half the side of the room ; and
within it another Alma, her counterpart, shone
dimly in the faint pink light of the lamps, with
their rose-coloured shades.
George Craik was obtuse in some respects,
I02 THE NEW ABELARD.
but he did not fail to notice that his cousin was
unusually resplendent. She had never been
extravagant in her toilette, and he had seldom
seen her in such bright colours as on the pre-
sent occasion. Everything about her betokened
an abundant happiness, which she could
scarcely conceal.
' What do you mean by getting into
trouble ? ' she inquired carelessly. ' Surely I
am old enough to take care of myself.'
' I don't think you are,' he answered. ' At
any rate, people are talking about you, and —
and I don't like it ! '
Alma shrugged her white slioulders.
' Why shouldn't people talk, if it pleases
them ? But what are they saying ? '
The ice was broken, and now was the
time for George to take the plunge. He
THE COUSINS. 103
hesitated seriously for a moment, and then
proceeded.
' They are saying scandalous things, and I
think you ought to know.'
' About me, George ? '
' About you and that man Bradley.'
' Indeed ! ' exclaimed Alma, and she
laughed quite joyously.
' It's no laughing matter,' cried Craik
angrily. ' It's a matter that concerns oiu-
family, and our family honour. I tell you they
couple your name with his in a way that
makes a fellow shudder. That is why I came
here to remonstrate with you. I heard this
afternoon that you and this man were seen in
Normandy together, at a time when everybody
supposed you to be here in London.'
Alma started and flushed crimson. Was
104 THE NEW ABELARD.
her secret discovered ? For her own part, she
did not much care ; indeed, she would have
rejoiced greatty to pubhsh her great happiness
to all the world ; but she respected Bradley's
wishes, and was resolute iu keeping silence.
The young man rose to his feet, and con-
tinued eagerly :
' Let me tell you. Alma, that I don't be-
heve a word of it. I know you are indiscreet,
of course ; but I am sure you would never
compromise yourself or us in any way. But
it's all over the place that you were seen to-
gether over at Eouen, and I want you to
give me the authority to say it's an infernal
lie!' '
Alma was rather disconcerted. She was at
a loss how to reply. But she was so secure in
her own sense of happy safety, that she was
THE COUSINS. 105
more amused than annoyed by her cousin's in-
dignation.
' Suppose it were the truth, George ?
Where would be the harm ? '
' Good God ! you don't mean to tell me it
is" true ! '
' Perhaps not,' was the quiet reply. ' I
don't mean to answer such accusations, one
way or the other,'
George Craik went livid.
' But you don't deny it ! '
' Certainly not. Let people talk what non-
sense they please ; it is quite indifferent to me.'
' Indifferent ! ' echoed George Craik. ' Do
you know your character is at stake ? Do
you know they say that you are this man's
mistress ? '
Even yet, Alina betrayed less anger and
io6 THE NEW ABELARD.
astoiiisliment than one might have thought
possible ; for, thougli the infamous charge
shocked her, she was too confident in her own
security, in the knowledge of her happy secret,
which she could at any moment publish to the
world, to be greatly or deeply moved. But if
the matter of her cousin's discourse failed to
disconcert her, its manner irritated her not a
little. She made an eager movement towards
the door as if to leave the room ; but, wheel-
ing, round suddenly, she raked him from head
to foot with a broadside from her scornful
eyes.
' And I suppose you are quite ready to
accept such a calumny ! * she cried scornfully.
'Nothing of the sort,' returned George.
' I'm sure you'd never go as far as that ! '
She gave a gesture of supreme disdain, and
THE COUSINS. 107
repeated tlie sense word for word witli con-
temptuous emphasis.
' You're sure I'd never go as far as that !
How good and kind of you to have so much
faith in me ! Do you know that every syllable
you utter to me is an insult and an outrage,
and that if Mr. Bradley heard you talk as you
have done, he would give you the whipping
you so richly deserve ! '
Here George Craik's self-control gave way ;
his face grew black as thunder, and clenching
his fist, he gave vent to an angry oath.
' D him ! I shoidd like to see him ti:y
it on. But I see what it is. He has dragged
you down to his level at last, the infernal
atheist! He thinks nothing sacred, and his
New Church, as he calls it, is as foul as himself.
0, / know ! He preaches that marriage isn't a
io8 THE NEW ABE LARD.
sacrament at all, but only a contract to be broken
by the \vill of either party ; and as you agree
with hira in everything, I suppose you agree
with him in tliat^ and are his mistress after all ! '
' That is enough ! ' exclaimed Alma, who
was now pale as death. ' Leave this place at
once, and never let me see your face again.'
' I won't go till I have spoken my mind ;
and don't make any mistake ; I shall speak it
to him as well as to you ! '
' If you have any sense left, you will do
nothing of the kind.'
' Won't I ? Wait and see ! ' returned
George, perfectly beside himself with rage.
' As for you, I wonder you have the courage
to look me in the face. I followed you both
to-night, and watched you ; I saw you embrac-
ing and kissing, and it turned me sick with
THE COUSINS. 109
shame. Tliere, the secret's out ! I shall
speak to my father, and see what he has to
say about your goings on.'
As he spoke, Alma approached him and
looked him steadily in the face. She was still
ghastly pale, and her voice trembled as she
spoke, but her entire manner expressed, not
fear, but lofty indignation.
'It is hke you to play the spy ! It is just
what I should have expected ! Well, I hope
you are satisfied. I love Mr. Bradley ; I have
loved him since the day we first met. Will
you go now ? '
George Craik seized his hat and stick, and
crossed to the door, where he turned.
'I will take care all the world knows of
your shameless conduct!' he cried, 'You
have brought disgrace upon us all. As for
no THE NEW ABE LARD.
this man, he shall be exposed ; he shall, by — !
He is a scoundrel not fit to live ! '
Without replying, Alma pointed to the
door ; and, after one last look of concentrated
rage, George Craik rushed from the house.
She heard the outer door close behind him,
but still stood like marble, holding her hand
upon her heart. Then, mth a low cry, she
sank shuddering into a chair, and covered her
face with her hands.
The scene which we have described had
tortured her delicate spirit more than she at
first knew ; and her cousin's bitter taunts and
reproaches, though they missed their mark at
first, had struck home in the end. She was a
woman of infinite sensitiveness, exceeding
sweetness of disposition ; and she could not bear
harsh words, even from one she cordially
THE COUSINS. Ill
despised. Above all, she shrank, like all good
woDieu, even the most intellectual, before the
evil judgment of the world. Could it be
true, as George Craik had said, that people
were connecting her name infamously with
that of Bradley? If so, then surely it was
time to let all the world know her happiness.
She drew forth from her bosom a photo-
graphic miniature of Bradley, set in a golden
locket. For a long time she looked at it in-
tently, through a mist of loving tears. Then
she kissed it fondly.
' He loves me ! ' she murmm^ed to herself.
' I will tell him what they are saying, and then
he will know that it is time to throw away all
disguise. Ah ! how proud I shall be when I
can stand by his side, holding his hand, and
say " This is my husband ! " '
112 THE NEW ABELARD.
CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE VESTRY.
The Nemesis of Greece wore — nothing,
A naked goddess without clothing,
Quite statue-like in form and feature ;
Ours, Adam, is a different creature :
She wears neat boots of patent leather,
A hat of plush with ostrich feather,
Her lips are painted, and beneath
You see the gleam of ivory teeth.
She, though the virtuous cut her daily,
Drinks her champagne, and warbles gaily ;
But at the fatal hour she faces
Her victim, folds him in embraces.
With dainty teeth in lieu of knife
Bites through the crimson thread of life !
Mayfair : a Medley.
The next day was Sunday, and one of those
golden days when all things seem to keep the
happy Sabbath. The chestnuts in the great
IN THE VESTRY. 113
avenue of Eesrent's Park were in full bloom,
and happy throngs were wandering in their
shade. On the open green spaces pale
children of the great city were playing in the
sunlight, and fiUing the air with their cries.
There was a large attendance at the temple
of the New Church that morning. It had
been whispered about that the Prime Minister
was coming to hear the new preacher for the
first time ; and sure enough he came, sitting,
the observed of all observers, with his grave
keen eyes on the preacher, and holding his
hand to his ear to catch each syllable.
Sprinkled among the ordinary congregation
were well-known politicians, authors, artists,
actors, journahsts.
Bradley's text that day was a significant
and, as it ultimately turned out, an ominous
VOL. II. I
114 THE NEW ABELARD.
one. It was this — ' What God has joined, let
no man put asunder.'
Not every day did the preacher take his
text from the Christian Bible ; frequently
enough, he chose a passage from the Greek
tragedians, or from Shakespeare, or from
V\^ordsworth ; on the previous Sunday, indeed,
he had scandalised many people by opening
with a quotation from the eccentric American,
Walt Whitman — of whose rhapsodies he was an
ardent admirer.
As he entered the pulpit, he glanced down
and met the earnest gaze of the Prime Minister.
Curiously enough, he had that very morning,
when revising his sermon, been reading the
great statesman's 'Ecclesiastical Essays,' and
more particularly the famous essay on ' Di-
vorce ; ' — wherein it is shown by numberless
IN THE VESTRY. 115
illustrations, chiefly from the Christian fathers,
that marriage is a permanent sacrament between
man and woman, not under any circumstances
to be broken, and that men like Milton, who
have pleaded so eloquently for the privilege of
divorce, are hopelessly committed to Antichrist.
Now, as the reader doubtless guesses, Bradley
rauGed himself on the side of the blind Puritan
and endeavoured to show that marriage,
although indeed a sacrament, was one which
could be performed more than once in a life-
time. He argued the matter on theological, on
moral, and as far as he could on physiological,
grounds ; and he illustrated his argument by
glancing at the lives of Milton himself and
even of Shelley. As his theme became more
and more delicate, and his treatment of it
more fearless, he saw the face of the great
I 2
ii6 THE NEW A BE LARD.
politician kindle almost angrily. For a mo-
ment, indeed, the Prime Minister seemed
about to spring to his feet and begin an im-
passioned reply, but suddenly remembering
that he was in a church, and not in the House
of Commons, he relapsed into his seat and
listened with a gloomy smile.
It was a curious sermon, and very charac-
teristic of both the place and the man. People
looked at one another, and wondered whether
they were in a church at all. Two elderly
unmarried ladies, who had come out of curi-
osity, got up indignantly and walked out of
the building.
Bradley paused and followed them with
his eyes until they had disappeared. Then
suddenly, as he glanced round the congregation
and resumed his discourse, he looked full into
IN THE VESTRY. 117
the eyes of the goddess Nemesis, who was
regarding him quietly from a seat in the centre
of the church.
Nemesis in widow's weeds, exquisitely cut
by a Parisian modiste, and with a charming
black bonnet set upon her classic head.
Nemesis with bold black eyes, jet black hair,
and a smiling mouth. In other words, Mrs.
Montmorency, seated by the side of George
Craik and his father the baronet.
The preacher started as if stabbed, and for
a moment lost the thread of his discourse ; but
controlling himself with a mighty effort, he
proceeded. For a few minutes his thoughts
wandered, and his words were vague and
incoherent ; but presently his brain cleared,
and his voice rose like loud, thunder, as he
pictured to his hearers those shameless women,
ii8 THE NEW ABELARD.
from Delilah downwards, who huve betrayed
in 2D, wasted their substance, and dragged them
down to disgrace and death. Were unions
with such women, then, eternal ? Was a man
to be tied in this world, perhaps in another too,
to foulness and uncleanness, to a hearth where
there was no sympathy, to a home where there
was no love ? In words of veritable fire, he
pictured what some women were, their im-
jAirity, their treachery, their mental and moral
degradation ; and, as a contrast, he drew a
glorious picture of what true conjugal love
should be — the one fair thing which sanctifies
the common uses of the world, and turns its
sordid paths iuto the flower-strewn ways that
lead to heaven.
Alma, who was there, seated close under
the pulpit, listened in a very rapture of sympa-
IN THE VESTRY. 119
tlietic idolatry ; while Mrs. Montmorency
heard both denunciation and peroration with
unmoved complacency, though her lips were
soon wreathed in a venomous and dangerous
smile.
The sermon ended, a prayer was said and a
hymn sung ; then Bradley walked with a firm
tread from the pulpit and entered the vestry.
Once there his self-possession left him, and,
trembling like a leaf from head to foot, he
sank upon a seat.
His sin had come home to him indeed,
at last. At the very moment when he was
touching on that fatal theme, and justifying
himself to his own conscience, Nemesis had
arisen, horrible, shameless, and forbidding ; had
entered the very temple of his shallow creed,
smiling and looking into his eyes ; had come
120 THE NEW ABE LARD.
to remind him that, justify himself as he might,
he could never escape the consequence of his
rash contempt of the divine sanction.
He had scarcely realised the whole
danger of his situation, when he heard a
light foot-tread close to hira, and, looking
up with haggard face, saw Alma approach-
ing. She had used her customary privilege,
and entered at the outer door, which stood
open.
' Ambrose ! ' she cried, seeing his distress,
' what is the matter ? '
He could not reply, but turned his head
away in agony. She came close, and put her
arms tenderly around him.
' T was afraid you were ill, dear — you went
so pale as you were preaching.'
' No, I am not ill,' he managed to reply.
IN THE VESTRY. 12 r
' 1 felt a little faint, that was all. I think I
need rest ; I have been overworking.'
* You must take a holiday,' she answered
fondly. 'You must go right away into the
country, far from here ; and I — I shall go with
you, shall I not ? '
He drew her to him, and looked long and
lovingly into her face, till the sense of her
infinite tenderness and devotion overcame him,
and he almost wept,
' If I could only go away for ever ! ' he
cried. ' If I could put the world behind me,
and see no face but yours, my darhng, till my
last hour came, and I died in your faithful
arms. Here in London, my life seems a
mockery, a daily weariness, an air too close and
black to breatlie in freedom. I hate it, Alma !
I hate everything in the world but you ! '
122 THE NEW ABELARD.
Alma smiled, and, smoothing back his hair
with her white hand, kissed his forehead.
' My Abelard must not talk like that !
Every day you continue to fulfd your ministry,
your fame and influence grow greater. How
eloquent you were to-day ! I heard the
Prime Minister say that you were the most
wonderful preacher he had ever heard,
and that though he disagreed with your
opinions '
' Do not speak of it ! ' he cried, interrupting
her eagerly. ' I care for no one's praise but
yours. Oh ! Alma what would it all be to me,
if I were to lose your love, your good esteem ! '
And he held her to him passionately, as if
fearing some violent hand might snatch her
away. At that moment he heard the sound
of a door opening, and looking up saw.
IN THE VESTRY. 123
standing on the threshold of the vestry, Mrs.
j\[ontmorency.
He started up wildly, while Alma, turning
quickly, saw the cause of his alarm.
' I beg your pardon,' said ilie newcomer
with a curious smile. ' I knocked at the door,
but you did not hear me ; so I took the Uberty
to enter.'
As she spoke, she advanced into the room,
and stood complacently looking at the pair.
The sickly smell of her favourite scent filled
the air, and clung about her hke incense around
some Cytherean altar.
' Do you — do you — wish to speak to me ? '
murmured Bradley with a shudder.
' Yes, if you please,' was the quiet reply.
' I wish to ask your advice as a clergyman, in a
matter which concerns me very closely. It is
124 THE NEW ABELARD.
a private matter, but, if you wish it, this lady
may remain until I have fniished.'
And she smiled significantly, fixing her
black eyes on the clergyman's face.
' Can you not come some other time ? ' he
asked nervously. ' To-day I am very busy,
and not very well.'
' I shall not detain you many minutes,' was
the reply.
Bradley turned in despair to Alma, who
was looking on in no little surprise.
' Will you leave us .? I will see you later
on in the day.'
Alma nodded, and then looked again at the
intruder, surveying her from head to foot with
instinctive dislike and dread. She belonged to
a type with which Alma was httle familiar.
Her eyebrows were blackened, her lips
IN THE VESTRY. 125
painted, and her whole style of dress was
prononce and extraordinary.
The eyes of the two women met. Then
Alma left the vestry, unconsciously shrinking
away from the stranger as she passed
her by.
Bradley followed her to the door, closed it
quietly, and turning, faced his tormentor.
' What brings you here ? ' he demanded
sternly. ' What do you want with me ? '
' I'm not quite sure,' replied Mrs. Mont-
morency, shrugging her shoulders, ' Before
I try to tell you, let me apologise for
interrupting your tete-a-tete with that charming
lady.'
' Do not speak of her ! She is too goo d
and pure even to be mentioned by such as
you.'
126 THE NEW ABELARD.
Mrs. Montmorency's eyes Hashed viciously,
and she showed her teeth, as animals, wild
or only half tame, do when they are
dangerous.
' You are very polite,' she returned. ' As
to her goodness and her purity, you know
more about them than I do. She seems fond
of you, at any rate ; even fonder than when I
saw you travelling together the other day, over
in France.'
This was a home-thrust, and Bradley at
once showed that he was disconcerted.
' In France ! travelling tosether ! ' he re-
peated. ' What do you mean ? '
' What I saw. You don't mean to deny
that I saw you in JSTormandy some weeks ago,
in company with Miss Craik ? '
He took an angry turn across the room,
IN THE VESTRY. 127
and then, wheeling suddenly, faced her
again.
' I mean to deny nothing,' he cried with
unexpected passion. ' I wish to have no
communication whatever with you, by word
or deed. I wish never to see your face
again. As to Miss Craik, I tell you again
that I will not discuss her with you, that I
hold her name too sacred for you even to
name. What has brought you back, to
shadow my life with your infamous presence ?
Our paths divided long ago ; they should never
have crossed again in this world. Live your
life ; I mean to live mine ; and now leave
this sacred place, which you profane.'
But though her first impulse was to shrink
before him, she remembered her position, and
stood Iier ground.
128 THE NEW ABELARD.
' If I go, I shall go straight to her, and tell
her that I am your wife.'
'It is a falsehood — you are no wife of
mine.'
' Pardon me,' she answered with a sneer,
' I can show her my marriage lines.'
As she spoke, he advanced upon her
threateningly, with clenched hands.
' Do so, and I will kill you. Yes, kill
you ! And it would be just. You have been
my curse and bane ; you are no more fit to
live than a reptile or a venomous snake, and
before God I would take your wicked life.'
His passion was so terrible, so overaiaster-
inc, that she shrank before it, and cowered.
He seized her by the wrist, and continued in
the same tone of menace :
' From the first, you were infamous. In
IN THE VESTRY. 129
an evil hour we met ; I tried to lift you from
the mud, but you were too base. I thought
you were dead. I thought that you might
have died penitent, and I forgave you. Then,
after long years, you rose again, like a ghost
from the grave. The shock of your resurrec-
tion nearly killed me, but I survived. Then,
I remembered your promise — never willingly
to molest me ; and hearing you had left'
England, I breathed again. And now you
have returned ! — Woman, take care ! As
surely as we are now standing in the Temple
of God, so surely will I free myself from you
for ever, if you torment me any more.'
He was mad, and scarcely knew what he
was saying. Never before in his whole life
had he been so carried away by passion, But
tlie woman with whom he had to deal was no
VOL. II. K
130 THE NEW ABELARD.
coward, and his taunts awoke all the angry
resentment in her heart. She tore herself free
from his hold, and moved towards the vestry
door.
' You are a brave man,' she said, ' to
threaten a woman ! But the law will protect
me from you, and I shall claim my rights ! '
Pale as death, he blocked her passage.
' Let me pass ! ' she cried.
'Not yet. Before you go, you shall tell
me what you mean to do ! '
' Never mind,' she answered, setting her
lips together.
' I will know. Do you mean to proclaim
my infamy to the world ? '
' I mean,' she replied, ' to prevent you from
passing yourself off as a free man, when you
are bound to me. Our marriage has never
IN THE VESTRY. 131
been dissolved ; you can never marry another
woman, till you are divorced from me.'
He threw his arms up into the air, and
uttered a sharp despairing cry :
* God, my God ! '
Then, changing his tone to one of wild
entreaty, he proceeded :
' Woman, have pity ! I will do anything
that you wish, if you will only keep our
secret. It is not for my own sake that I ask this,
but for the sake of one who is innocent, and
who loves me. I have never injured you ; I
tried to do my duty by you ; our union has
been annulled over and over again by your
infidelities. Have pity, for God's sake, have
pity ! '
She saw that he was at her mercy, and,
woman-like, proceeded to encroach.
K 2
132 THE NEW ABELARD.
'Why did yon preach at me from the
pulpit ? ' she demanded. ' I am not a saint,
but I am as good as most women. They say
that, though you are a clergyman, you don't
even believe in God at all. Everyone is say-
ing you are an atheist, and this church of
yours, which you call sacred, is a wicked
place. Yet you set yourself up as my
superior. Why should you ? I am as good
as you ; perhaps better. You pass yourself
off as a free man, because you are running
after a rich woman ; and you have taken
money from her, everyone knows that. I
think slie ought to know the truth concerning
you, to know that she can never be anything
more than your mistress — never your wife.
You say I am infamous. I think ijou are
more infamous, to deceive a lady you pretend
to love.'
IN THE VESTRY. i33
She paused, and looked at liira. He stood
trembling like a leaf, white as death. Every
word that she uttered went like a knife into
his heart.
' You are right,' he murmured. ' I should
not have reproached you ; for I have behaved
like a villain. I should have told Miss Craik
the whole truth.'
' Just so ; but you have left that disagree-
able task to me ! '
' You will not tell her ! No, no ! It ^\ill
break her heart.'
Mrs. Montmorency shrugged her shoulders.
' Promise me at least one thing,' he cried.
' Give me time to think how to act. Keep our
secret until I see you again.'
And as he spoke, he stretched out his arms
imploringly, touching her with his trembling
134 1HE NEW ABELARD.
hands. After a moment's hesitation, she re-
pUed :
' I think I can promise that ! '
' You do ? you will ? '
' Well, yes ; only let me warn you to treat
me civilly. I won't be insulted, or preached
at ; remember that.'
So saying, she left the vestry, leaving the
miserable clergyman plunged in desolation, and
more dead than alive.
135
CHAPTEE XVII.
COUNTERPLOT.
Master L, Good morrow, Mistress Light-o'-Luve.
Mistress L. Good morrow, Master Lackland. What's the
news?
Master L. News enow, I warrant. One Greatheart hath
stolen my sweetling away to a green nook i' the forest, where
an old hermit hath made them one. Canst thou give me a
philtre to poison the well wherein they drink — or a charm to
steal upon them while they sleep i' the bower, and slay them ?
Do so, good dame, and by Hecate's crows I will make thee rich,
when I come unto mine own. — TJie Game at Chess: a Comedy.
Mrs. Montmorency passed out into the sun-
shine, and speedily found herself on the quiet
carriage-way which encircles Eegent's Park.
Living not far away, she had come without
her victoria, in which she generally took the
air; and as she strolled along, her dress and
136 THE NEW ABELARD.
general style were sufficiently peculiar to
attract considerable attention among the
passers-by. For her dress, as usual, was re-
splendent.
She carried on her back and round her neck
A poor man's revenue.
Amorous shop- walkers, emancipated for the
day, stared impudently into her face, and
wheeled round on their heels to look at her.
Shop-girls in their Sunday finery giggled as
they passed her. Quite unconscious of and
indifferent to the attention she attracted, she
walked lightly on, holding up a black parasol
lavishly ornamented with valuable lace.
As she walked, she reflected. In reality,
she was rather sorry for Bradley than otherwise,
though she still resented the indignant and
scornful terms in which he had described her
COUNTERPLOT. 137
class to his congregation. But she was not
niahcious for the mere sake of malice ; and she
was altogether too indifferent to Bradley per-
sonally to feel the slightest interest in his affairs.
She knew she had used him ill, that he and
she were altogether unfit persons ever to have
come together, and no persuasion whatever
would have made her resume her old position
in relation to him. Thus, unless she could gain
something substantial by molesting him and re-
minding society of her existence, she was quite
content to let him alone.
As she reached the south side of the park,
she heard a footstep behind her, and the next
moment George Craik joined her, out of
breath.
' Well P ' he said questioningly,
' Well ! ' she repeated, smiling.
138 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Did you see him ? '
*Yes. I found liim in the vestry of his
church, and reminded him that we had met
before.'
' Just so,' said the young man ; ' but now I
want you to tell me, as you promised to do,
exactly what you know about him. I've put
tliis and that together, and I suppose there
used to be something between you. Is it
anything which gives you a hold upon the
scoundrel nowV
' Perhaps,' she replied quietly. ' However,
I've made up my mind not to tell you anything
more at present.'
'But you promised,' said the young man,
scowling.
' I dare say I did, but ladies' promises are
seldom kept, mon cher. Besides, what do you
COUNTERPLOT. 139
want me to tell, and, above all, what am I to
get by siding with you against him ? '
'If you can do or say anything to convince
my cousin he is a rascal,' said George eagerly,
' if you can make her break off her friendship
with him, my father would pay you any
amount of money.'
' I'm not hard up, or likely to be. Money
is of no consequence. Eeally, I think this is
no affair of mine.'
' But what's the mystery ? ' demanded the
other. ' I mean to find out, whether you tell
me or not ; and I have my suspicions, mind
you ! Dottie Destrange tells me that you were
once married. Is that true? and is this the
man ? I'd give a thousand pounds to hear you
answer, " yes." '
Mrs. Montmorency smiled, and then
lauglied aloud, while George Craik continued :
I40 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Even if you could show tliut you and
Bradley once lived together, I think it would
serve the purpose. I know my cousin's temper.
She thinks the fellow a saint, but if he were
once degraded in her opinion, she would throw
him over like a shot.'
' And take you in his place, you think ? '
' Perhaps ; I don't know.'
' What a fool you must think me ! ' said
Mrs. Montmorency, sarcastically. ' I am to
rake up all my past life, make myself the
common talk of the world, all to oblige you.
Can't do it, mon clier. It wouldn't be fair,
either to myself or to the man.'
At that moment a hansom passed, and she
beckoned to the driver with her parasol.
' Au revoir,' she cried, stepping into the
vehicle. ' Come and see me in a few days, and
I shall have had time to think it over.'
141
CHAPTEE XVIIT.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST,
What's this ? Heyday ! Magic ! Witchcraft !
Passing common hedge and ditch-craft !
You whose soul no magic troubles,
Crawling low among the stubbles,
Thing compact of clay, a body
Meant to perish, — think it odd, eh ?
Raise your eyes, poor clod, and try to
See the tree-tops, and the sky too !
There's the sun with pulses splendid
Whirling onward, star attended !
Child of light am I, the wizard,
Fiery-form'd from brain to gizzard,
While for you, my sun-craft spurning,
Dust thou art, to dust returning !
Johe and Hysteria : a Medley.^
Like most men famously or infamously familiar
in the mouths of the public, the Eev. Ambrose
' Note. — A joke, and a very poor one, which an honoured
and great master must forgive, since the joker himself has
laboured more than most living men to spread the fame of the
master and to do him honour. — 11. B.
142 THE NEW ABELARD.
Bradley was a good deal troubled with busy-
bodies, who sometimes communicated with him
through the medium of the penny post, and
less frequently forced themselves upon his
privacy in person. The majority demanded
his autograph ; many sought his advice on
matters of a private and spiritual nature ; a
few requested his immediate attention to ques-
tions in the natiure of conundrums on literature,
art, sociology, and the musical glasses. He
took a good deal of this pestering good-
humouredly, regarding it as the natural
homage to public success, or notoriety ; but
sometimes he lost his temper, when some more
than common impertinence aroused his indig-
nation.
Now, it so happened that on the very
evening of his painful interview with Mrs.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 143
Montmorency, lie received a personal visit
from one of the class to whicli we are allud-
ing ; and as the visit in question, though trivial
enough in itself, was destined to lead to impor-
tant consequences, we take leave to place it
upon special record. He was seated alone in
his study, darkly brooding over his own
dangerous position, and miserably reviewing
the experiences of his past life, when the
housemaid brought in a card, on which were
inscribed, or rather printed, these words : —
Professor Salem Mapleleafe,
Solar Biologist.
' What is this ? ' cried Bradley irritably.
' I can see nobody.'
As he spoke a voice outside the study door
answered him, in a high-pitched American
accent —
144 THE NEW A HE LARD.
' I beg your pardon. I shan't detain
you two minutes. I am Professor Maple-
leafe, representing the Incorporated Society of
Spiritual Brethren, New York,'
Simultaneously there appeared in the door-
way a little, spare man with a very large head,
a gnome-like forehead, and large blue eyes full
of troubled ' wistfulness ' so often to be found
in the faces of educated Americans. Before
the clergyman could utter any further remon-
strance this person was in the room, holding
out his hand, which was small and tliin, like
that of a woman.
' My dear sir, permit me to shake you by
the hand. In all America, and I may add in
all England, there is no warmer admirer than
myself of the noble campaign you are leading
against superstition. I have lines of introduc
A SOLA/? BIOLOGIST. 145
tion to yoii from our common friends and
fellow- workers, Ellerton and Knowles worth.'
And he mentioned the names of two of
the leading transcendental thinkers of America,
one an eccentric philosopher, the other a medi-
tative poet, with whom Bradley had frequently
corresponded.
There was really no other way out of the
dilemma short of actual rudeness and incivility,
than to take the letters, which the little Pro-
fessor eagerly handed over. The first was
brief and very characteristic of the writer,
meaning as follows : —
' See Mapleleafe. He talks nonsense, but
he is a man of ideas. I like him. His sister,
who accompanies him, is a sibyl.'
The other was less abrupt and unusual,
though nearly as brief.
VOL. II. L
146 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Let me introduce to your notice Professor
Mapleleafe, who is on a visit to Europe with
his charming sister. You may have heard of
botli in connection with the recent develop-
ments in American spiritualism. The Pro-
fessor is a man of singular experience, and
Miss Mapleleafe is an accredited clairvoyante.
Such civility as you can show them will be
fully appreciated in our circle here.'
Bradley glanced up, and took a further
survey of the stranger. On closer scrutiny he
perceived that the Professor's gnome-like head
and wistful eyes were associated with a some-
what mean and ignoble type of features, an
insignificant turn-up nose, and a receding chin ;
that his hair, where it had not thinned away,
was pale straw-coloured, and that his eye-
brows and eyelashes were almost white.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 147
His small, shrunken figure was clad in
shabby black.
To complete the oddity of his appearance,
he carried an eye-glass, dangling from his neck
by a piece of black elastic ; and as Bradley
eyed him from head to foot, he fixed the glass
into his right eye, thereby imparting to his
curious physiognomy an appearance of jaunty
audacity not at all in keeping with his general
appearance.
' You come at a rather awkward time,' said
Bradley. ' I seldom or never receive visits on
Sunday evening, and to-night especially '
He paused and coughed uneasily, looking
very ill at ease.
'I understand, I quite understand,' re
turned the Professor, gazing up at him in real
or assumed admiration. ' You devote your
L 2
148 THE NEW ABE LARD.
seven til-day evening to retirement and to
meditation. Well, sir, I'm real grie\ed to
disturb you ; but sister and I heard yon preach
this morning, and I may at once tell you that
for a good square sermon and elocution fit for
the Senate, we never heard anyone to match
you, though Ave've heard a few. After hear-
ing you orate, I couldn't rest till I presented
my lines of introduction, and that's a fact.
Sister would have come to you, but a friendly
spirit from the planet Mars dropt in just as she
was fixing herself, and she had to stay.'
Bradley looked in surprise at the speaker,
beginning to fancy that he was conversing
with a lunatic ; but the Professor's manner was
quite commonplace and matter-of-fact.
' Have you been long in Europe ? ' he
asked, hardly knowing what to say.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 149
' Two months, sir. We liave just come
from Paris, where we were uncommon well
entertained by the American circle. You are
aware, of course, that my sister has transcen-
dental gifts ? '
' That she is clairvoyante ? So Knowles-
worth says in his letter. I may tell you at once
that I am a total disbeliever in such matters.
I believe spiritualism, even clairvoyance, to
be mere imposture.'
' Indeed, sir ? ' said the Professor, without
the slightest sign of astonishment or irritation.
' You don't believe in solar biology ? '
' I don't even know what that means,'
answered Bradley with a smile.
' May I explain, sir ? Solar biology is the
science which demonstrates our connection
with radiant existences of the central luminary
I50 THE NEW ABELARD.
of this universe; our dependence and inter-
dependence as spiritual beings on the ebb and
flow of consciousness from that shining centre ;
our life hitherto, now, and hereafter, as solar
elements. We are sunbeams, sir, materialised ;
thought is psychic sunlight. On the basis of
that great principle is established the reality of
our correspondence with spiritual substances,
alien to us, existing in the other solar
worlds.'
Bradley shrugged his shoulders. His
mood of mind at that moment was the very
reverse of conciliatory towards any form of
transcendentalism, and this seemed arrant non-
sense.
' Let me tell you frankly,' he said, ' that in
all such matters as these I am a pure mate-
rialist.'
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 151
' Exactly,' cried the Professor. ' So are
we, sir.'
' Materialists ? '
' Wliy, certainly. Spiritualism is material-
ism ; in other words, everything is spirit
matter. All bodies, as the great Swedenborg
demonstrated long ago, are spirit ; thought is
spirit — that is to say, sir, sunlight. The same
great principle of which I have spoken is the
destruction of all religion save the religion of
solar science. It demolishes Theism, which
has been the will-o'-the-wisp of the world,
abolishes Christianity, which has been its bane.
The God of the universe is solar Force, which
is universal and pantheistic'
' Pray sit down,' said Bradley, now for the
first time becoming interested. ' If I under-
stand you, there is no personal God.^ '
152 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Of course not,' returned tlie little man,
sidling into a chair and dropping his eyeglass.
' A personal God is, as the scientists call it,
merely an anthropomorphic Boom. As the
great cosmic Bard of solar biology expresses it
in his sublime epic :
The radiant flux and reflux, the serene
Atomic ebb and flow of force divine,
This, this alone, is God, the Demiurgus ;
By this alone we are, and still shall be.
O joy I the Phantom of the Uncondition'd
Fades into nothingness before the breath
Of that eternal ever-effluent Life
Whose centre is the shining solar Heart
Of countless throbbing pulses, each a world !
The quotation was delivered with extra-
ordinary rapidity, and in the offhand matter-
of-fact manner characteristic of the speaker.
Then, after pausing a moment, and fixing his
glass again, the Professor demanded eagerly :
' What do you think of that, sir ? '
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 153
' I think,' answered Bradley, laughing con-
temptuously, ' that it is very poor science, and
still poorer poetry.'
' You think so, really ? ' cried the Professor,
not in the least disconcerted. ' I think I could
convince you by a few ordinary manifestations,
that it's at any rate common sense.'
It was now quite clear to Bradley that the
man was a charlatan, and he was in no mood
to listen to spiritualistic jargon. What both
amused and puzzled him was that two such
men as his American correspondents should
have franked the Professor to decent society
by letters of introduction. He reflected, how-
ever, that from time immemorial men of genius,
eager for ghmpses of a better life and a serener
state of things, had been led ' by the nose,' like
Faust, by charlatans. Now, Bradley, though
154 THE NEW ABELARD.
an amiable man, had a very ominous frown
when he was displeased ; and just now his
brow came down, and his eyes looked out of
positive caverns, as he said :
' I have already told you what I think of
spiritualism and spiritualistic manifestations. I
believe my opinion is that of all educated
men.'
' Spiritualism, as commonly understood, is
one thing, sir,' returned the Professor quietly ;
' spirituahstic materialism, or solar science, is
another. Our creed, sir, like your own, is the
destruction of supernaturalism. If you will
permit me once more to quote our sublime
Bard, he sings as follows : —
AH things abide in Nature ; Form and Soul,
Matter and Thought, Function, Desire, and Dream,
Evolve within her ever-heaving breast ;
Within her, we subsist ; beyond and o'er her
Is naught but Chaos and primseval Night.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 155
The Shadow of that Night for centuries
Projected Man's phantasmic Deity,
Formless, fantastic, hideous, and unreal ;
God is Existence, and as parts of God
Men ebb and flow, for evermore divine.
' If you abolish supernaturalism,' asked the
clergyman impatiently, ' what do you mean by
manifestations ? '
' Just this,' returned the little man glibly,
' the interchange of communications between
beings of this sphere and beings otherwise con-
ditioned. This world is one of many, all of
which have a two-fold existence — in the sphere
of matter, and in the sphere of ideas. Death,
which vulcrar materialists consider the end of
consciousness, is merely one of the many phe-
nomena of change ; and spiritualistic realities
being indestructible '
Bradley rose impatiently.
' I am afraid,' he exclaimed, ' that I cannot
156 THE NEW ABELARD.
discuss the matter any longer. Our opinions
on the subject are hopelessly antagonistic, and
to speak frankly, I have an invincible repug-
nance to the subject itself.'
' Shared, I am sorry to say, by many of
your English men of science.'
' Shared, I am glad to say, by most think-
ing men.'
' Well, well, sir, I won't detain you at pre-
sent,' returned the Professor, not in the least
ruffled. ' Perhaps you will permit me to call
upon you at a more suitable time, and to intro-
duce my sister? '
' Eeally, I ' began Bradley with some
embarrassment.
' Eustasia Mapleleafe is a most remarkable
woman, sir. She is a medium of the first
degree ; she possesses the power of prophecy,
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 157
of clairvoyance, and of thought-reading. The
b<:^ok of the Soul is open to her, and you would
wonder at her remarkable divinations.'
'T must still plead my entire scepticism,'
said Bradley coldly.
' I guess Eustasia Mapleleafe would convert
you. She was one of your congregation to-
day, and betw^een ourselves is greatly con-
cerned on your account.'
' Concerned on my account ! ' echoed the
clergyman,
' Yes, sir. She believes you to be under
the sway o^ malign influences, possibly lunar or
stellar. She perceived a dark spectrum on the
radiant orb of your mind, troubling the solar
effluence which all cerebral matter emits, and
which is more particularly emitted by the
phosphorescent cells of tlie human brain.'
158 THE NEW A BE LARD.
Bradley would by this time have considered
that he was talking to a raving madman, had
not the Professor been self-contained and
matter-of-fact. As it was, lie could hardly
conceive him to be quite sane. At any other
time, perhaps, he might have listened with
patience and even amusement to the fluent
little American ; but that day, as the reader is
aware, his spirit was far too pre-occupied.
His face darkened unpleasantly as the
Professor touched on his state of mind during
the sermon, and he glanced almost angrily
towards the door.
' May I bring my sister ? ' persisted the
Professor. ' Or stay — with your leave, sir, PU
write oiu* address upon that card, and perhaps
you will favour her with a call.'
As he spoke, he took up his own card
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST, 159
from the table, and wrote upon it with a
penciL
' That's it, sir — care of Mrs. Piozzi Baker,
17 Monmouth Crescent, Bayswater.'
So saying, he held out his hand, which
Bradley took mechanically, and then, with a
polite bow, passed from the room and out of
the house.
Bradley resumed his seat, and the medi-
tations which his pertinacious visitor had
interrupted ; but the interruption, irritating as
it was, had done him good. Absurd as the
Professor's talk had been, it was suggestive of
that kind of speculation which has invariably a
fascination for imaginative men, and from time
to time, amidst his gloomy musings over his
own condition, amidst his despair, his dread,
and his self-reproach, the clergyman found
i6o THE NEW A BE LARD.
himself reminded of the odd ])ropositions of the
so-called biologist.
After all, there was something in the little
man's creed, absurd as it was, which brought a
thinker ftice to face with the great phenomena
of life and being. How wretched nnd ignoble
seemed his position, in face of the eternal
Problem, which even spiritualism was an
attempt to solve ! He was afraid now to look
in the mirror of Nature, lest he should behold
only his own lineament, distorted by miserable
fears. He felt, for the time being, infamous.
A degrading falsehood, like an iron ring, held
him chained and bound.
Even the strange charlatan had discovered
the secret of his misery. He would soon be a
laughing-stock to all the world ; he, who had
aspired to be the world's teacher and prophet,
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. i6i
who would have flown like an eagle mto the
very central radiance of the sun of Truth !
He rose impatiently, and paced up and
down the room. As he did so, his eye fell
upon something white, lying at the feet of
the chair where his visitor had been sitting.
He stooped and picked it up. He found it
to be a large envelope, open, and containing
two photographs. Hardly knowing what he
did, he took out the pictures, and examined
them.
The first rather puzzled him, though he
soon realised its character. It represented the
little Professor, seated in an armchair, readiijo-
a book open upon his knee ; behind him was a
shadowy something in white floating drapery,
which, on close scrutiny, disclosed the outline
of a human face and form, white and vague
VOL. II. M
l62 THE NEW ABELARD.
like the filmy likeness seen in a smouldering
fire. Beneath tliis picture was written in a
small clear hand, — 'Professor Mapleleafe and
Azaleiis, a Spirit of tlie Third Magnitude, from
the Evening Star.'
It was simply a curious specimen of what
is known as ' Spirit-Photography.' The clergy-
man returned it to its envelope with a smile of
contempt.
The second photograph was different ; it
was the likeness of a woman, clad in white
muslin, and reclining upon a sofa.
The figure was petite, almost fairy-like in
its fragility ; the hair, which fell in masses over
the naked shoulders, very fair ; the face, elfin-
like, but exceedingly pretty ; the eyes, which
looked right out from the picture into those of
the spectator, were wonderfully large, lustrous
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST. 163
and wild. So luminous and searching were
these eyes, so rapt and eager the pale face,
that Bradley was startled, as if he were looking
into the countenance of a living person.
Beneath this picture were written the
words — ' Eustasia Mapleleafe.'
The clergyman looked at this picture again
and again, with a curious fascination. As he
did so, holding it close to the lamplight, a
peculiar thrill ran through his frame, and his
hand tingled as if it touched the warm hand
of some living being. At last, with an effort,
he retm-ned it also to the envelope, which he
threw carelessly upon his desk.
It was quite clear that the Professor had
dropt the pictures, and Bradley determined to
send them by that night's post. So he sat
down, and addressed the envelope according to
u 2
i64 THE NEW ABELARD.
tlie address on the card ; but before sealing it
up, he took out the photographs and inspected
them again.
A new surprise awaited him.
The photograph of the Professor and his
ghostly familiar remained as it had been ; but
the photograph of the woman, or girl, was
mysteriously changed — that is to say, it had
become so faint and vague as to be almost
unrecognisable. The dress and figure were
dim as a wreath of vapour, the face was
blank and featureless, the eyes were faded
and indistinct.
The entire effect was that of some ghostly
presence, fading slowly away before the
vision.
Bradley was amazed, in spite of himself,
and his whole frame shook with agitation.
A SOLAR BIOLOGIST 165
He lield the sun-picture again to the lamj)-
light, inspecting it closely, and every instant
it seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till
nothing remained on the paper but a formless
outline, like the spirit-presence permanent on
the other jDhotograph.
By instinct a superstitious or rather a
nervous man, Bradley now felt as if he were
under the influence of some extraordinary
spell. Already unstrung by the events of the
day, he trembled from head to foot. At last,
with an effort, he conquered his agitation,
sealed up the photographs, and rang for the
servant to put the letter in the post.
Although he suspected some trick, he was
greatly troubled and perplexed ; nor would
his trouble and perplexity have been much
lessened, if at all, had he been acquainted with
1 66 THE NEW ABELARD.
the truth — that the httle Professor had left tlie
photographs in the room not by accident, but
intentionally, and for a purpose which will be
better imderstood at a later period of the
present story.
i67
CHAPTER XIX.
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE.
eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash'd more pale by a dreamy dew !
O red red lips, O dainty tresses,
O heart the breath of the world distresses !
O little lady, do they divine
That they ha^rQ fathomed thee and thine ?
Fools ! let them fathom hre, and beat
Light in a mortar ; ay, and heat
Soul in a crucible ! Let them try
To conquer the light, and the wind, and the sky !
Darkly the secret faces lurk,
We know them least where most they work ;
And here they meet to mix in thee,
For a strange and mystic entity,
Making of thy pale soul, in truth,
A life half trickery and half truth !
Ballads of St. Abe,
MoxMOUTii Crescent, Baysvvater, is one of
those forlorn yet thickly populated streets
1 68 THE XEIV ABELARD.
which he under tlie immediate dominion of the
great Whiteley, of Westboiirne Grove. The
houses are adapted to hmited means and hirge
famihes ; and in front of them is an arid piece
of railed-in ground, where crude vegetable
substances crawl up in the likeness of trees and
grass. The crescent is chiefly inhabited by
lodging-house and boarding-house keepers,
City clerks, and widows who advertise for
persons ' to share the comforts of a cheerful
home,' with late dinners and carpet balls in
the evening. It is shabby-genteel, impecu-
nious, and generally depressing.
To one of the dingiest houses in this
dingy crescent. Professor Mapleleafe, after his
interview with our hero, cheerfully made his
A\av.
He took the 'bus which runs along Maryle-
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 169
bone Eoad to the Eoyal Oak, and thence made
liis way on foot to the house door. In answer
to his knock the door was opened by a tall
red-haired matron wearing a kitchen apron
over her Wack stuff dress. Her complexion
was sandy and very pale, her eyes were bold
and almost fierce, lier whole manner was self-
assertive and almost aggressive ; but she
greeted the Professor with a familiar smile,
as with a friendly nod he passed her by,
hastening upstairs to the first floor.
lie opened a door and entered a large
room furnished in faded crimson velvet, with
a dining-room sideboard at one end, cheap
lithographs on the walls, and mantelpiece
ornamented with huge shells and figures in
common cliina.
The room was quite dark, save for the
170 THE NEW ABELARD.
light of a small paraffin lamp with pink sluide ;
and on a sofa near the window the figure of a
young woman was reclining, drest in white
muslin, and with one arm, naked almost to the
shoulder, dabbling in a small glass water tank,
placed upon a low seat, and containuig several
small water-lilies in full bloom.
Anyone who had seen the photograph
which the Professor had left behind him in the
clergyman's house, would have recognised the
original at a glance. There was the same
'petite almost child-hke figure, the same loose
flowing golden hair, the same elfin-like but
pretty face, the same large, wild, lustrous eyes.
But the face of the original was older, sharper,
and more care-worn than might have been
guessed from the picture. It was the face of
a woman of about four- or five-and-twenty.
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 171
and though the lips were red and full-coloured,
and the eyes full of hfe and lightness, the
complexion had the dulness of chronic ill-
health.
The hand which hung in the water, play-
ing with the lily-leaves, was thin and trans-
parent, but the arm was white as snow and
beautifully rounded.
The effect would have been perfectly
poetic and ethereal, but it was spoiled to some
extent by the remains of a meal which stood
on the table close by — a tray covered with a
soiled cloth, some greasy earthenware plates,
the remains of a mutton chop, potatoes and
bread.
As the Professor entered, his sister looked
up and greeted him by name.
'You are late, Salem,' she said with an
172 THE NEW ABELARD.
unmistakeable American accent. ' I was
wondering what kept you.'
' I'll tell you,' returned the Professor.
' I've been ha\-ing a talk with Mr. Ambrose
Bradley, at his own house. I gave him our
lines of introduction. I'm real sorry to find
that he's as ignorant as a redskin of the great
science of solar biology, and the way he re-
ceived me was not reassuring — indeed, he
almost showed me the door.'
' You're used to that, Salem,' said Eustasia
with a curious smile.
' Guess I am,' returned the Professor
dryly ; ' only I did calculate on something
different from a man of Bradley's acquire-
ments, I did indeed. However, he's just one
of those men who believe in nothing by halves
or quarters, and if we can once win him over
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 173
to an approval of our fundamental proposi-
tions, he'll be the most valuable of ail recruits
to new causes — a hot convert.'
The woman sighed — a sigh so long, so
weary, that it seemed to come from the very
depths of her being, and her expression grew
more and more sad and ennuyee, as she drew
her slender fingers softly through the waters
of the tanlj.
' Ain't you well to-night, Eustasia ? ' in-
quired the Professor, looking at her with some
concern.
' As well as usual,' was the reply. ' Sup-
pose European air don't suit me ; I've never
been quite myself since I came across to this
country.'
Iler voice was soft and musical enough,
and just then, when a peculiar wistful liglit
174 THE NEW A BE LARD.
filled the faces of both, it was quite possible to
believe them to be brother and sister. But in
all other outward respects, they were utterly
unlike.
' Tell me more about this young clergy-
man,' she continued after a pause. 'I am
interested in him. The moment I saw him
I said to myself he is the very image of —
of
She paused without finishing the sentence,
and looked meaningly at her brother.
' Of Ulysses E. Stedman, you mean ? ' cried
the Professor, holding up his forefinger. ' Eus-
tasia, take care ! You promised me never to
think of him any more, and I expect you to
keep your word.'
' But don't you see the resemblance ? '
' Well, I dare say I do, for Ulysses was
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 175
well-looking enougli when he wasn't in liquor.
Don't talk about him, and don't think about
him ! He's buried somewhere down Florida
way, and I ain't sorry on your account
neither.'
' Killed ! murdered ! and so young ! ' cried
the girl, with a cry so startling, and so full of
pain, that her brother looked aghast. As he
spoke, she drew her dripping right hand from
the tank and placed it wildly upon her fore-
head. The water-drops streamed down her
face like tears, while her whole countenance
looked livid with pain.
' Eustasia ! '
' I loved him, Salem ! I loved him with all
my soul ! '
' Well, I know you did,' said the little man
soothingly. ' I warned you against him, but
176 THE NEW ABELARD.
you wouldn't listeu. Now that's all over ; and
as for Ulysses being murdered, he was killed
in a free fight, he was, and he only got what
he'd given to many another. Don't you take
on, Eustasia ! If ever you marry, it will be a
better man than he was.'
' Marry ? ' cried the girl with a bitter laugli.
' Who'd marry me 1 Who'd ever look at such a
thing as I am .? Even he despised me, Salem,
and thought me a cheat ana an impostor.
Wherever we go, it's the old story. I hate
the life; I hate myself. I'd rather be a
beggar in the street than what 1 am.'
'Don't underreckon yourself, Eustasia!
Don't underreckon your wonderful gifts ! '
' What are my gifts worth ? ' said Eustasia.
' Can they bring him back to me .? Can they
bring back those happy, happy days we spent
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 177
together? Haven't I tried, and tried, and
tried, to get a glimpse of his face, to feel again
the touch of his hand ; and he never comes —
he will never come — never, never I I wish I
was with him in the grave, I do.'
Her grief was truly pitiable, yet there was
something querulous and ignoble in it too,
which prevented it from catching the tone of
true sorrow. For the rest, the man whose
memory awakened so much emotion had been
pretty much what the Professor described
him to be — a handsome scoundrel, with the
manners of a gentleman and the tastes of a
rowdy. A professional gambler, he had been
known as one of the most dansjerous adven-
turers in the Southern States, having betrayed
more women, and killed more men, than any
person in his district. A random shot had at
VOL. II. N
178 THE NEW ABELARD.
last laid him low, to the great relief of the
respectable portion of the community.
The Professor eyed his sister thoughtfully,
waiting till her emotion had subsided. "He
had not long to wait. Either the emotion
was shallow itself, or Eustasia had extraor-
dinary power of self-control. Her face became
comparatively untroubled, though it retained
its peculiar pallor ; and reaching out her hand,
she again touched the water and the lilies
swimming therein,
' Salem ! ' she said presently.
' Yes, Eustasia.'
' Tell me more about this Mr. Bradley. Is
he married ? '
' Certainly not.'
' Engaged to be married ? '
' I believe so. They say he is to marry
EUSTASIA MAFLELEAFE. 179
Miss Craik, the heiress, whom we saw in churcli
to-day.'
Eustasia put no more questions ; but
curiously enough, began crooning to herself,
in a low voice, some wild air. Her eyes
flashed and her face became illuminated ; and
as she sang, she drew her limp hand to and fro
in the water, among the flowers, keeping time
to the measure. All her sorrow seemed to
leave her, giving place to a dreamy pleasure.
There was something feline and almost for-
bidding in her manner. She looked like a
pythoness intoning oracles : —
Dark ej^es aswim with sibylline desire,
And vagrant locks of amber !
Iler voice was clear though subdued, re-
sembling, to some extent, the purring of a
cat.
n2
i8o THE NEW ABELARD.
' Wliat are you singing, Eustasia ? '
' " In lilac time when bine birds sing,"
Salem.'
' What a queer girl you are ! ' cried the
Professor, not without a certain wondering
admiration. ' T declare I sometimes feel afraid
of you. Anyone could see with half an eye
that we were brother and sister only on one
side of the family. Your mother was a re-
markable woman, like yourself. Father used
to say sometimes he'd married a ghost seer ;
and it might have been, for she hailed from the
Highlands of Scotland. At any rate, you
inherit her gift.'
Eustasia ceased her singing, and laughed
again — this time with a low, self satislied
gladnees.
'It's all I do inherit, brother Salem,' she
EU STASIA MAPLELEAFE. i8i
said ; adding, in a low voice, as if to herself,
' But it's something, after all.'
' SomethinfT ! ' cried the Professor. ' It's a
Divine privilege, that's what it is! To think
that when you like you can close your eyes,
see the mystical coming aud going of cosmic
forces, and, as the sublime Bard expresses it.
Penetrate where no human foot hath trod
Into the ever-quickening glories of God,
See star with star conjoin'd as soul with soul,
Swim onward to the dim mysterious goal,
Hear rapturous breathings of the Force which flows
From founts wherein the eternal godhead glows !
I envy you, Eustasia ; I do, indeed.'
Eustasia laughed again, less pleasantly.
' Guess you don't believe all that. Some-
times I think myself that it's all nervous
delusion.'
' Nervous force you mean. Well, and
what is nervous force but solar being ? What
1 82 THE NEW A BE LARD.
3'ou see and bear is as real as — as real ns —
spiritual photography. Talking of that, I gave
Mr. Bradley one of your pictures, taken under
test conditions.'
' You gave it him ? '
' Dropt it in his room, where he's certain to
find it.'
' Why did you do that ? ' demanded the
girl almost sharply.
' Why ? Because, as I told you, I want to
win him over. Such a man as he is will be
invaluable to us, here in England. He has the
gift of tongues, to begin with ; and then he
knows any number of influential and wealthy
people. What Ave want now, Eustasia, is
money.'
' We always have wanted it, as long as I
ean remember.'
EUSTASIA MAPLELEAFE. 183
' I don't mean what you mean,' cried the
Professor indignantly. ' I mean money to
push the great cause, to propagate the new
reHgion, to open up more and more the
arcanum of mystic biology. We want money,
and we want converts. If we can win Bradley
over to our side, it won't be a bad bemnningf.'
' Who is to win him over ? I .^ '
' Why, of course. You must see him, and
when you do, I think it is as good as done.
Only mind this, Eustasia ! Keep your head
cool, and don't go spooning. You're too
susceptible, you are ! If I hadn't been by to
look after you, you'd have thrown yourseh'
away a dozen times.'
Eustasia smiled and shook her head. Then,
witli a weary sigh, she arose.
' I'll go to bed now, Salem.'
i84 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Do — and get your beauty-slccj). You'll
want all your strength to-morrow. We have a
seance at seven, at the house of Mrs. Upton.
Tyndall is mvited, and I calculate you'll want
to have all your wits about you.'
' Good night ! '
' Good night,' said the Professor, kissing her
on the forehead ; then, with a quiet change
from his glib, matter-of-fact manner to one of
real tenderness, he added, looking wistfully
into her eyes, ' Keep up your spirits, Eustasia !
We shan't stay here long, and then we'll go
back to America and take a long spell of rest.'
Eustasia sighed again, and then glided from
the room. She was so light and fragile that
her feet seemed to make no sound, and in her
white floating drapery she seemed almost like
a ghost.
EU STASIA MAPLELEAFE. 185
Left alone, the Professor sat clown to tLe
table, drew out a pencil and number of letters,
and began making notes in a large pocket-
book.
Presently he paused thoughtfully, and
looked at the door by which Eustasia had
retreated.
' Poor gill ! ' he muttered. ' Her soul's too
big for her body, and that's a fact. I'm afraid
she'll decline like her mother, and die young.'
i86 THE NEW ABELARD
CHAPTEE XX.
THE THUNDERCLAP.
The Mighty and the Merciful are one ;
The morning dew that scarcely bends the flowers,
Exhal'd to heaven, becomes the thunderbolt
That strikes the tree at noon.
Judas Iseai'iot : a Drama,
There are. moments in a man's life when all
the forces of life and society seem to conspire
for his destruction ; when, look which way he
will, he sees no loophole for escape ; when
every step he takes forward seems a step down-
ward towards some pitiless Inferno, and when
to make even one step backward is impossible,
because the precipice down which he has been
THE THUADERCLAP. 187
thrust seems steep as a wall. Yet there is still
hope for such a man, if his own conscience is
not in revolt against him ; for that conscience,
like a very angel, may uplift him by the hair
and hold him miraculously from despair and
death. Woe to him, however, if he has no
such living help ! Beyond that, there is surely
no succour for him, beyond the infinite mercy,
the cruel kindness, of his avenojinsi: God.
The moment of which I speak had come
to Ambrose Bradley.
Even in the very heyday of his pride, when
he thought himself strong enough to walk alone,
without faith, almost without vital belief, his
sins had found him out, and he saw the Inferno
waiting at his feet. He knew that there was
no escape. lie saw the powers of evil arrayed
on every side against him. And cruellest of all
i88 THE NEW ABELARD.
the enemies leagued for his destruction, was the
conscience which miglit have been his sweetest
and surest fiiend.
Tt was too late now for regrets, it was too late
now to reshape his course. Had he only exhi-
bited a man's courage, and, instead of snatching
an ignoble happiness, confided the whole truth to
the w Oman he loved, she might have pitied and
forgiven him ; but he had accepted her love
under a lie, and to confide the truth to her now
would simply be to make a confession of his
moral baseness. He dared not, could not, tell
her ; yet he knew that detection was inevitable.
Madly, despairingly, he wrestled with his agony,
and soon lay prostrate before it, a strong man
self-stripped of his spiritual and moral strength.
Not that he was tamely acquiescent ; not
that he accepted his fate as just.
THE THUNDERCLAP. 189
On the contrary, his whole spirit rose in
revolt and indication. He had tried to serve
God — so at least he assured himself; he had
tried to become a living lesson and example to
a hard and unbelieving world ; he had tried to
upbuild again a Temple where men might
worship in all honesty and freedom ; and what
was the result ? For a slight fault, a venial
blunder, of his own youth, he was betrayed to
a punishment which threatened to be ever-
lasting.
His intellect rebelled at the idea.
With failing strength he tried to balance
himself on the satanic foothold of revolt. His
doubts thickened around him like a cloud. If
there was a just God, if there was a God at all,
why had he made such a world ?
In simple truth, the man's fatal position was
I90 THE NEW ABELARD.
entirely the consequence of his once hick of
moral courage.
He had missed the supreme moment, he had
lacked the supreme sanction, which would have
saved him, even had liis danger been twenty-
fold more desperate than it had been. Instead
of standing erect in his own strength, and
defying the Evil One, who threatened to hurl
him down and destroy him, he had taken the
Evil One's hand <ind accepted its support. Yes,
the devil had helped him, but at what a cost !
' Get thee behind me, Satan ! ' he should
have said. It was the sheerest folly to say it
now.
He cowered in terror at the thought of
Alma's holy indignation. He dreaded not her
anger, which he could have borne, but her dis-
enchantment, which he could noi bear.
THE THUNDERCLAP. 191
Her trust in him had been so absolute, her
self-surrender so supreme ; but its motive had
been his goodness, her faith in his unsulUed
truth. She had been his handmaid, as she
had called herself, and had trusted herself to
him, body and soul. So complete had been
his intellectual authority over her, that even
had he told her his secret and thereupon
assured her that he was morally a free man,
though legally fettered, she would have ac-
cepted his genial pleading and still have given
him her love. He was quite sure of that.
But he had chosen a course of mere deception,
he had refuj^ed to make her his confidant, and
she had married him in all faith and fervour,
believing there was no corner in all his heart
where he had anything to conceal.
It was just possible that she might still
192 THE NEW ABELARD.
forgive liim ; it was simply impossible that she
could ever revere and respect him, as she
hitherto had done.
Does he who reads these lines quite realise
what it is to fall from the pure estate of a
loving woman's worship? Has he ever been
so throned in a loving heart as to understand
how kingly is the condition — how terrible the
fall from that sweet power? So honoured
and enthroned, he is still a king, though he is
a beggar of all men's charity, though he has
not a roof to cover his head; so dethroned
and fallen, he is still a beggar, though all the
world proclaims him king.
Mephistopheles Minor, in the shape of gay
George Craik, junior, scarcely slept on his
discovery, or rather on his suspicions. He
THE THUNDERCLAP. 193
"Was now perfectly convinced that there was
some mysterious connection between the
clergyman and Mrs. Montmorency ; and as
the actress refused for the time being to lend
herself to any sort of open persecution, he
determined to act on his own responsibility.
So he again canvassed Miss Destrange and the
other light ladies of his acquaintance, and re-
ceiving from them further corroboration of the
statement that Mrs. Montmorency had been
previously married, he had no doubt what-
ever that Ambrose Bradley was the man who
had once stood to her in the relation of a
husband.
Armed with this information, he sought
out his father- on the Monday morning, found
him at his club, told him of all he knew, and
asked his advice.
VOL. II.
194 THE NEW ABELARD.
' My only wish, you know,' he explained,
' is to save Ahna from that man, who is
evidently a scoundrel. So I thought I would
come to you at once. The question is, what
is to be done ? '
'It's a horrible comphcation,' said the
baronet, honestly shocked. ' Do you actually
mean to tell me that you suspect an improper
relationship between Alma and this infernal
infidel .? '
' 1 shouldn't hke to go as far as that ; but
they were seen travelling together, like man
and wife, in France.'
' Good heavens ! It is incredible.'
' I should like to shoot the fellow,' cried
George furiously. ' And I would, too, if this
was a duelling country. Shooting's toe good
for him. He ought to be hung ! '
THE THUNDERCLAP. 195
The upshot of the conversation was that
father and son determined to visit Ahna at
once together, and to make one last attempt
to bring her to reason. At a little after
midday they were at her door. The baronet
stalked in past the servant, with an expression
of the loftiest moral indignation.
' Tell Miss Craik that I wish to see her at
once,' he said.
It was some minutes before Alma appeared.
When she did so, attired in a pink morning
'peignoir of the most becoming fashion, her
fece was bright as sunshine ; but it became
clouded directly she met her uncle's eyes.
She saw at a glance that he had come on an
unpleasant errand.
Geoi'ge Craik sulked in a corner, waiting
for his father to conduct the attack
2
196 THE NEW ABELARD.
'What has brought you over so early,
uncle ? ' she demanded. ' I hope George has
not been talking nonsense to you about me.
He has been here before on the same errand,
and I had to show him the door.'
* George has your interest at heart,' re-
turned the baronet, fuming ; ' and if you
doubt his disinterestedness, perhaps you will
do me the justice to believe that / am your
true friend, as well as your relation. Now
my brother is gone, I am your nearest pro-
tector. It is enough to make your father rise
in his grave to hear what I have heard.'
' What have you heard ? ' cried Alma,
turning pale with indignation. ' Don't go too
far, uncle, or I shall quarrel with you as well
as George ; and I should be sorry for that.'
' Will you give me an explanation of your
THE THUNDERCLAP. 197
conduct — yes or no ? — or do you refuse my
right to question you ? Eemember, Alma, the
honour of our family — your father's honour —
is in question.'
' How absurd you are ! ' cried Alma, witli
a forced laugh. ' But there, T will try to keep
my temper. What is it that you want to
know ? '
And she sat down quietly, with folded
hands, as if waiting to be interrogated.
' Is it the fact, as I am informed, that you
and Mr. Bradley were seen travelling alone
together, some weeks ago, in Normandy?'
Alma hesitated before speaking ; then,
smiling to herself, she said,
' Suppose it is true, uncle — what then .? '
The baronet's face went red as crimson,
and he paced furiously up and down the room.
198 THE NEW ABELARD.
' What tben ? Good heavens, can you ask
that question? Do you know that your cha-
racter is at stake? Then you do not deny
it?'
' No ; for it is true.'
Father and son looked at one another ;
then the baronet proceeded :
' Then all the rest is true. You are that
man's mistress ! '
The shot struck home, but Alma was pre-
pared for it, and without changing her attitude
in the least, she quietly replied :
' No, uncle ; I am that man's wife ! '
' His wife ! ' ejaculated father and son in
the same breath.
' Yes. We were married some weeks ago,
and after the wedding, went for a few days to
France. There ! I intended to keep the secret,
THE THUNDERCLAP. 199
till I was free to tell it ; but gross, cruel im-
portunity has wrung it from me. Do not
think, however,' she continued, rising to her
feet and exchanging her self-possessed manner
for one of angry wrath, ' that I shall ever for-
give you, either of you, for your shameful sus-
picions concerning me. You might have spared
me so many insults. You might have knowni
me better. However, now you know the
truth, perhaps you will relieve me from any
further persecution.'
Father and son exchanged another look.
*Do you actually affirm that you are
married ? ' exclaimed the baronet.
' Actually,' returned the young lady with a
sarcastic bow.
Thereupon George Craik sprang to his feet,
prepared to deliver the cowp de grace.
200 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Tell her the truth, fatlier ! ' he exclauTiecl.
' Tell her tliut she is no more murried than I
am ! '
' What does he mean ? ' cried Alma, look-
ing at her uncle. ' Is he mad ? '
' He means simply this, Alma,' said Sir
George, after a prompting glance from his son.
' If you have gone through the marriage cere-
mony with this man, this infidel, you have
been shamefully betrayed. The scoundrel was
unable to marry again, if, as we have reason
to believe, his first wife is still living ! '
The two men, father and son, had struck
their blow boldly but very cruelly, and it came
with full force on the devoted woman's head.
At first Alma could scarcely believe her ears ;
she started in her chair, put out her hands
quickly as if to ward off another savage attack,
THE THUNDERCLAP. 201
and then shrank in terror, while every vestige
of colour in her cheeks faded away.
Sir George stood gazing down at her, also
greatly agitated, for he was well-bred enough
to feel that the part he was playing was un-
manly, almost cowardly. He had spoken and
acted on a mere surmise, and even at that
moment, amidst the storm of his nervous in-
dignation, the horrible thought flashed upon
him that he might be wrong after all.
' " His first wife is still living ! " ' repeated
Alma with a quick involuntary shudder,
scarcely able to reahse the words. ' Uncle,
what do you mean ? Have you gone mad, as
well as George ? Of whom are you speaking ?
Of— of Mr. Bradley ? '
' Of that abominable man,' cried the baronet,
' who, if my information is correct, and if there
202 THE NEW ABE LARD.
is law in the land, shall certainly pay the
penalty of his atrocious crime ! Do not think
that we blame you^ he added more gently ;
' no, for you are not to blame. You have
been the dupe, the victim of a villain ! '
Like a prisoner sick with terror, yet
gathering all his strength about him to protest
against the death-sentence for a crime of which
he is innocent, Alma rose, and trembling
violently, still clutching the chair for support,
looked at her uncle.
' I do not believe one word of what you
say ! I believe it is an infamous falsehood.
But whether it is true or false, I shall never
forgive you in this world for the words you
have spoken to me to-night.'
' I have only done my duty. Alma ! ' re-
turned Sir George, uneasily, moving as he
THE THUNDERCLAP. 203
Spoke towards her and reacliiog out his arms
to support lier. ' My poor child — courage !
George and I will protect and save you.'
Hereupon Mephistopheles junior uttered a
sullen half-audible murmur, which was under-
stood to be a solemn promise to punch the
fellow's head — yes, smash him — on the very
earliest opportunity !
' Don't touch me ! ' exclaimed Alma.
' Don't approach me ! What is your authority
for this cruel libel on Mr. Bradley? You talk
of punishment. It is you that will be punished,
be sure of that, if you cannot justify so shameful
an accusation.'
The two men looked at each other. If,
after all, the ground should give way beneath
them ! But it was too late to draw back or
temporise.
204 THE NEW ABELARD.
' Tell her, father,' said George, with a
promptiug look.
' You ask our authority for the statement,'
replied the baronet. 'My dear Alma, the
thing is past a doubt. We have seen ^the —
tlie person'
' The person ? What person ? '
' Bradley's wife I '
' He has no wife but me,' cried Alma. ' I
love him — he is my husband ! '
Then, as Sir George shrugged his shoulders
pityingly, she leant forward eagerly, and de-
manded in quick, spasmodic gasps : —
' Who is the woman wdio wrongs my rights?
Who is the creature who has filled you with
this falsehood ? Who is she ? Tell me ! '
' She is at present passing under the name
of Montmorency, and is, I believe, an actress.'
THE THUNDERCLAP. 205
As lie spoke, there came suddenly in Alma's
remembrance the vivid picture of the woman
whom she had seen talking with the clergyman
in the vestry, and simultaneously she was con-
scious of the sickly odour of scent which had
surrounded her like a fume of poison. Alma
grew faint. Some terrible and foreboding
presence seemed overpowering her. She
thought of the painted face, the shameless
dress and bearincr of the strang;e woman, of
Bradley's peculiar air of nervous uneasiness, of
the thrill of disUke and repulsion which had
run momentarily through her own frame as
she left them together. Overcome by an in-
describable and sickening horror, she put her
hand to her forehead, tottered, and seemed
about to fall.
Solicitous and alarmed, the baronet once
2o6 THE NEW ABELARD.
more approached her as if to support her.
But before he could touch her she had shrunk
shuddering away.
Weak and terrified now, she uttered a
despairing moan.
' Oh ! why did you come here to tell me
tliis ? ' she cried. ' Why did you come here to
break my heart and wreck my life? If you
had had any pity or care for me, you would
have spared me ; you would have left me to
discover my misery for myself, Go now, go ;
you have done all you can. I shall soon know
for myself whether your cruel tale is false or
true.'
• It is true,' said Sir George. ' Do not be
unjust, my child. We could not, knowing
what we did, suffer you to remain at the mercy
of that man. Now, be advised. Leave the
THE THUNDERCLAP. 207
affair to us, who are devoted to you ; we will
see that you are justified, and that the true
culprit is punished as he deserves.'
And the two men made a movement
towards the door.
' Stop ! ' cried Alma. ' What do you
intend to do ? '
' Apply for a warrant, and have the
scoundrel apprehended without delay.'
' You will do so at your peril,' exclaimed
Alma, with sudden energy. ' I forbid you to
interfere between him and me. Yes, I forbid
you ! Even if things are as you say — and I
will never believe it till I receive the assurance
from his own lips, never ! — even if things are
as you say, the wrong is mine, not yours, and
I need no one to come between me and the
man I love.'
2o8 THE NEW ABE LARD.
' The man you love ! ' eclioed Sir Georfre
in amazement. * Alma, tliis is infatuation ! '
' I love him, uncle, and love such as mine
is not a light tiling to be destroyed by the first
breath of calumny or misfortune. What has
taken place is between him and me alone.'
' I beg your pardon,' returned her uncle,
with a recurrence to his old anc^er. ' Our
good name — the honour of the house — is at
stake ; and if you are too far lost to consider
theae, it is my duty, as the head of the family,
to act on your behalf.'
' Certainly,' eclioed yonng George between
his set teeth.
' And how would you vindicate them ? '
asked Alma, passionately. ' By outraging and
degrading me ? Yes ; for if you utter to any
other soul one syllable of this story, you drag
THE THUNDERCLAP. 209
my good name in the mire, and make me tlie
martyr. I need no protection, I ask no
justification. If necessary I can bear my
misery, as I have borne my happiness, in silence
and alone.'
' But,' persisted Sir George, ' you will surely
let us take some steps to '
' Whatever I do will be done on my own
responsibility. I am my own mistress. Uncle,
you must promise me — you must sw^ear to me
— to do nothing without my will and consent.
You can serve me yet ; you can show that you
are still capable of kindliness and compassion,
by saving me from proceecings which you
would regret, and which I sliould certainly not
survive.'
Sir George looked at his son in fresh
perplexity. In the whirlwind of his excite -
VOL. II. P
2IO THE NEW ABELARD.
ment lie had liardly taken into calculation the
unpleasantness of a public exposure. True,
it would destroy and punish the man, but,
on the other hand, it would certainly bring
disgrace on the family. Alma's eccentricities,
both of opinion and of conduct, which he had
held in very holy horror, would become the
theme of the paragraph-maker and the leader-
writer, and the immediate consequence would
be to make the name of Craik ridiculous. So
he stammered and hesitated.
George Craik, the younger, however, had
none of his father's scruples. He cared little
or nothing now for his cousin's reputation. All
he wanted was to expose, smash, pulverise, and
destroy Bradley, the man whom he had always
cordially detested, and who had subjected him
to innumerable indignities on the part of his
THE THUNDERCLAP. 211
cousin. So, seeing Alma's helplessness, and no
longer dreading her indignation, he plucked up
heart of grace and took his full part in the
discussion.
' The fellow deserves penal servitude for
life,' he said, ' and in my opinion. Alma, it's
your duty to prosecute him. It is the only
course you can take in justice to yourself and
your friends. I know it will be deucedly
unpleasant ; but not more unpleasant than
going through the Divorce Court, which
respectable people do every day.'
' Silence ! ' exclaimed his cousin, turning
upon him with tremulous indignation.
' Eh ? what ? ' ejaculated George.
' I will not discuss Mr. Bradley with you.
To my uncle I will listen, because I know he
has a good heart, and because he is my dear
p2
212 THE NEW ABELARD.
father's brother ; but I forbid you to speak to
me on the subject. I owe all this misery and
humiliation to you, and you only.'
' That's all humbug ! ' George began
furiously, but his father interposed and waved
him to silence.
' Alma is excited, naturally excited ; in her
cooler senses she will acknowledge that she
does you an injustice. Hush, George ! — My
dear child,' he continued, addressing Alma, ' all
my son and I desire to do is to save you pain.
You have been disgracefully misled, and I re-
peat, I pity rather than blame you. To be
sure you have been a little headstrong, a little
opinionated, and I am afraid the doctrines
promulgated by your evil genius have led
you to take too rash a view of— hum— moral
sanctions. Depend upon it, loose ideas in
THE THUNDERCLAP. 213
matters of religion lead, directly and indirectly,
to tbe destruction of morality. Not that I
accuse you of wilfiil misconduct — Heaven for-
bid ! But you have erred from want of caution,
from, if I may so express it, a lack of discretion ;
for you should have been aware that the man
that believes in neither Our Maker nor Our
Saviour — an — in short, an infidel — would not
be deterred by any moral consideration from
acts of vice and crime.'
This was a long speech, but Alma paid little
or no attention to it. She stood against the
mantelpiece, leaning her forehead against it,
and trembling with agony ; but she did not
cry — the tears would not come yet — she was
still too lost in amazement, pain, and dread.
Suddenly, as Sir George ended, she looked
up and said : —
214 THE NEW ABE LARD.
'The name of tliis woman, this actress?
Where is she to be found ? '
' Her name — as I told you, her assumed
name — is Montmorency. George can give you
her address ; but I think, on the whole, you had
better not see her.'
' I must,' replied Alma, firmly.
Sir George glanced at his son, who there-
upon took out a notebook and wrote on one of
the leaves, which he tore out and handed to his
father.
' Here is the address,' said the baronet,
passing the paper on to Alma.
She took it without looking at it, and threw
it on the mantelpiece.
' Now pray leave me. But, before you go,
promise to do nothing — to keep this matter
secret — until you hear from me. I must first
ascertain that what you say is true.'
772^^ THUNDERCLAP. 215
' We will do as you desire, Alma,' returned
Sir George ; ' only I think it would be better —
much better — to let us act for you.'
' No ; I only am concerned. I am not a
child, and am able to protect myself.'
' Very well,' said her uncle. ' But try, my
child, to remember that you have friends who
are waiting to serve you. I am heart-broken —
George is heart-broken — at this sad affair. Do
nothing rash, I beseech you ; and do not forget,
in this hour of humiliation, that there is One
above Who can give you comfort, if you will
turn humbly and reverently to Hira I '
With this parting homily the worthy baro-
net approached his niece, drew her to him, and
kissed her benignantly on the forehead. But she
shrank away quickly, with a low cry of distress.
' Do not touch me ! Do not speak to me !
Leave me now, for God's sake ! '
2i6 THE NEW ABELARD.
After a long-drawn sigh, expressive of
supreme sympathy and commiseration, and a
prolonged look full of quasi-paternal emotion,
Sir George left the room. George followed,
with a muttered ' Good-night ! ' to which his
cousin paid no attention.
Father and son passed out into the street,
where the manner of both underwent a decided
change.
' Well, that's over ! ' exclaimed the baronet.
' The poor girl bears it for better than I ex-
pected ; for it is a horrible situation.'
' Then you mean to do as she tells you,*
said George, ' and let the scoundrel alone ? '
' For the time being, yes. After all, Alma
is right, and we must endeavour to avoid a
public exposure.'
' It's sure to come out. It's bigamy^ you
THE THUNDERCLAP. 217
know — Bigamy ! ' he added, with more empha-
sis and a capital letter.
' So it is — if it is true. At present, you
know, we have no proofs whatever — only
suspicions. God bless me ! how ridiculous we
should look if the whole thing turns out a
mare's nest after all ! Alma will never forgive
us ! You really feel convinced that there was
a previous marriage ? '
' I'm sure of it,' returned George. ' And,
v/hether or not '
He did not finish the sentence ; but what he
added to himself, spitefully enough, was to the
effect that, ' whether or not,' he had paid out
his cousin for all her contumelious and per-
sistent snubbing.
2i8 THE NEW A BE LARD.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CONFESSION.
* Dieu, qui, des le commencement de la creation, avez en
tirant la femme d'une cote de I'homme 6tabli le grand sacrement
du mariage, vous qui I'avez honor^e et relev(5e si hautsoit en vous,
incarnant dans le sein d'une femme, soit en commenQant vos
miracles par celui des noces de Cana, vous qui avez jadis accords
ce remede, suivant vos vues, a mon incontinente faiblesse, ne
repoussez pas les prieres de votre servante : je les verse humble-
ment aux pieds de votre divine majest6 pour mes p^chds et pour
ceux de mon bien-aime. O Dieu qui etes la bont^ meme,
pardonnez a nos crimes si grands, et que I'immensit^ de votre
misericorde se mesure a la multitude de nos fautes. Prenez
contre vos serviteurs la verge de la correction, non le glaive de
la fureur. Frappez la chair pour conserver les ames. Venez
en pacificateur, non en vengeur ; avec bont6 plutot qu'avec
justice ; en pere misericordieux, non en maitre severe.'
The Pkater of'H^loise {written for her by Abelaed).
Alma remained as her uncle and cousin had
left her, leaning against the mantelpiece, with
THE CONFESSION. 219
her eyes fixed, her frame convulsively trem-
bling. Yet her look and manner still would
have confirmed Sir George in his opinion that
she bore the shock ' better than might have
been expected.' She did not cry or moan-
Once or twice her hand was pressed upon
her heart, as if to still its beating, that was
all.
Nevertheless, she was already aware that
the supreme sorrow, the fatal dishallucination,
of her life had come. She saw all her cherished
hopes and dreams, her fairy castles of hope and
love, falling to pieces Uke houses of cards ; the
idol of her hfe falling with them, changing to
clay and dust ; the whole world darkening, all
beauty withering, in a chilly wind from the
eternity of shadows. If Ambrose Bradley was
base, if the one true man she had ever known
220 THE NEW A BE LARD.
and loved was false, what remained ? Nothing
but disgrace and death.
He had been in her eyes next to God,
without speck or Haw, perfectly noble and
supreme ; one by one he had absorbed all her
childish faiths, while in idolatry of passion she
had knelt at his feet adoring him —
He for God only, she for God in him .
And that godhead had sufficed.
She had given up to him, together with her
ftiith, her hope, her understanding, her entire
spiritual life.
Passionate by nature, she had never loved
any other human creature ; even such slight
thrills of sympathy as most maidens feel, and
which by some are christened ' experiences,'
having been almost or quite unknown to her.
She had been a studious, reserved girl, with a
THE CONFESSION. 221
manner which repelled the approaches of beard-
less young men of her own age ; her beauty-
attracted them, but her steadfast intellectual
eyes frightened and cowed the most impudent
among them. Not till she came into collision
with Bradley did she understand what personal
passion meant ; and even the first overtm:es
were intellectual, leading only by very slow
degrees to a more tender relationship.
Alma Craik, in fact, was of the same fine
clav of which enthusiasts have been made in
all ages. Born in the age of Pericles, she would
doubtless have belonged to the class of which
Aspasia was an immortal type ; in the early
days of Christianity, she would have perhaps
figured as a Saint ; in its media3val days as a
proselytising abbess; and now, in the days of
Christian decadence, she opened her dreamy
222 THE NEW ABELARD.
eyes on the troublous liglits of sjiiritual Science,
found in tliem her inspiration and her heavenly-
hope. But men cannot live by bread alone,
and women cannot exist without love. Her
large impulsive nature was barren and incom-
plete till she had discovered what the Greek
lietairai found in Pericles, what the feminine
martyrs found in Jesus, what Eloisa found in
Abelard ; that is to say, the realisation of a
mascuhue ideal. She waited, almost without
anticipation, till the hour was ripe.
Love comes not as a slave
To any beckoning finger ; but, some day,
When least expected, cometh as a King,
And takes bis throne.
So at last it was with the one love of Alma's
life. Without doubt, without fear or question, she
suffered her lover to take full sovereignty, and
to remain thenceforth throned and crowned.
THE CONFESSIOA. 223
And now, she asked herself shudderingly,
was it all over ? Had the end of her dream
come, when she had scarcely realised its begin -
nin<T ? If this was so, the beautiful world was
destroyed. If Bradley was unworthy, there
was no goodness in man ; and if the divine type
in humanity was broken like a cast of clay,
there was no comfort in religion, no certainty
of God.
She looked at her watch ; it was not far
from midnight. She moved from her support,
and walked nervously up and down the room.
At last her mind was made up. She put
on her hat and mantle, and left the house.
In her hand she clutched the piece of paper
which George Craik had given her, and which
contained the name and address of Mrs. Mont-
morency.
224 THE NEW ABELARD.
The place was close at hand, not far indeed
from Bradley's residence and her own. She
hastened thither without hesitation. Her way
lay along the borders of the park, past the
very Church which she had spared no expense
to build, so that she came into its shadow
almost before she knew.
It was a still and windless night ; the skies
were blue and clear, with scarcely a cloud, and
the air was full of the vitreous pour of the
summer moon, which glimmered on tlie church
windows with ghostly silvern light. From the
ground there exhaled a sickly heavy odour —
the scent of the heated dew-charged earth.
Alma stood for some time looking at the
building with the fortunes of which her own
seemed so closely and mysteriously blent. Its
shadow fell upon her witli ominous darkness. ..
THE CONFESSION. 225
Black and sepulchral it seemed now, instead of
bright and full of joy. As she gazed upon it,
and remembered how she had laboured to
upbuild it, how she had watched it grow stone
by stone, and felt the joy a child might feel in
marking the growth of some radiant flower, it
seemed the very embodiment of her own
despair.
Now, for the first time, her tears began to
flow, but slowly, as if from sources in an arid
heart. K she had heard the truth that day^
the labour of her life was done ; the place she
looked upon was curst, and the sooner some
thunderbolt of God struck it, or the hand of
man razed it to the ground, the better for all
the world.
There was a light in the house close by — in
the room where she knew her lover was sit-
VOL. II. Q
226 THE NEW ABELARD.
ting. She crept close to the rails of the
garden, and looked at the light through her
tears. As she gazed, she prayed ; prayed that
God might spare her yet, rebuke the satanic
calumny, and restore her lord and master to
her, pme and perfect as he had been.
Then, in her pity for him and for herself,
she thought how base he might think her if
she sought from any lips but his own the con-
firmation of her horrible fear. She would be
faithful till the last. Instead of seeking out
the shameless woman, she would go in and ask
Bradley himself to confess the truth.
Swift action followed the thought. She
opened the gate, crossed the small garden, and
rang the bell.
The hollow soimd, breaking on the solemn
ft
stillness, startled her, and she shrank trembling
THE CONFESSION. 227
ill the doorway ; then she heard the sound of
bolts being drawn, and the next moment the
house door opened, and the clergyman ap-
peared on the threshold, holding a light.
He looked wild and haggard enough, for
indeed he had been having liis dark hour
alone. He wore a black dressing jacket with
no waistcoat, and the collar of his shirt was
open and tieless, falling open to show liis
powerful muscular throat.
' Alma ! ' he exclaimed in astonishment.
' You here, and so late I '
' Yes, it is I,' she answered in a low voice.
' I wish to speak to you. May I come in ? '
He could not see her face, but the tones of
her voice startled him, as he drew back to let
her enter. She passed by him without a word,
and hastened along the^lobby to the study.
Q 2
228 THE NEW ABELARD.
He closed the door softly, and followed
her.
The moment he came into the bright lamp-
light of the room he saw her standing and
facing him, her face white as death, her eyes
dilated.
' My darhng, what is it ? Are you ill ? ' he
cried.
But he had no need to ask any question.
He saw in a moment that she knew his secret.
' Close the door,' she said in a low voice ;
and after he had obeyed her she continued,
' Ambrose, I have come here to-night because
I could not rest at home till I had spoken
to you. I have heard something terrible —
so terrible that, had I believed it utterly,
I think I should not be livin^ now. It
is something that concerns us both — me, most
THE CONFESSION. 229
of all. Do you know what I mean ? Tell
me, for Goers sake, if you know ! Spare
me the pain of an explanation if you can.
Ah, God help me ! I see you know ! '
Their eyes met. He could not lie to her
now.
' Yes, I know,' he replied,
' But it is not true ? Tell me it is not
true ? '
As she gazed at him, and stretched out
her arms in wild entreaty, his grief was pitiful
beyond measure. He turned his eyes away
with a groan of agony.
She came close to him, and, taking his
head in her trembling hands, turned his face
again to hers. He collected all his strength to
meet her reproachful gaze, wliile he replied, in
a deep tremulous voice : —
230 THE NEW ABELARD.
' You have heard that I have deceived you,
that I am tlie most miserable wretch beneath
tlie sun. You have heard — God help me ! —
that there is a woman living, other than your-
self, who clahns to be my wife.'
' Yes ! that is what I have heard. But I
do not believe — I will not believe it. I have
come to have from your own lips the assur-
ance that it is a falsehood. Dear Ambrose,
tell me so. I will believe you. Whatever
you tell me, I will believe with all my soul.'
She clung to him tenderly as she spoke,
with tlie tears streaming fast down her face.
Disengaging himself gently, he crossed the
room to his desk, and placed his hand upon
some papers scattered there, with the ink fresh
upon them.
' When I heard you knock,' he said, ' I was
THE CONFESSION. 231
trying to write down, for your eyes to read,
what my lips refused to tell, what I could not
speak for utter, overpowering shame. I knew
the secret must soon be known ; I wished to be
first to reveal it to you, that j^ou might know
the whole unvarnished truth. I was too late,
I find. My enemies have been before me, and
you have come to reproach me — as I deserve.'
' I have not come for that,' answered Alma,
sobbing. ' It is too late for reproaches. I only
wish to know my fate.'
' Then try and listen, while I tell you every-
thing,' said Bradley, in the same tone of .utter
misery and despair, ' I am speaking my own
death-warrant, I know ; for with every word I
utter I shall be tearing away another living
link that binds you to my already broken heart.
I have nothing to say in my own justification ;
232 TriE NEW ADELARD.
no, not one word. If you cou'd strike me
dead at your feet, in your just and holy anger,
it would be dealing with me as I deserve. I
should have been strong ; I was weak, a coward!
I deserve neither mercy nor pity/
It was strange how calm they botl) seemed ;
he as he addressed her in his low deep voice,
she as she stood and hstened. Both were
deathly pale, but Alma's tears were checked, as
she looked in despair upon the man who had
wrecked her life.
Then he told her the whole story : of how,
in his youthful infatuation, he had married
Mary Goodwin, how they had lived a wretched
life together, how she had fled from him, and
how for many a year he had thought her dead.
His face trembled and his cheek flushed as he
spoke of the new life that had dawned upon
THE CONFESSION. 233
him, when long afterwards he became ac-
quainted with herself; while she listened in
agony, thinking of the pollution of that other
woman's embraces from w^hich he had pas'sed.
But presently she hearkened more peace-
fully, and a faint dim hope began to quicken in
her soul — for as yet she but dimly apprehended
Brcidley's situation. So far as she had heard,
the man was comparatively blameless. The
episode of his youth was a repulsive one, but
the record of his manhood was clear. He had
believed the w^oman dead, he had had every
reason to believe it, and he had been, to all
intents and purposes, free.
As he ceased, he heaved a sigh of deep
relief, and her tears flowed more freely. She
moved across the room, and took his hand.
' I understand now%' she said. ' Ambrose,
234 THE NEW ABELARD.
why did you not confide in me from the first ?
There should have been no secrets between us.
I would freely have forgiven you Ard
I forgive you now ! When you married me,
you beheved the woman dead and in her grave.
If she has arisen to part us so cruelly, the blame
is not yours — thank God for that ! '
But he shrank from her touch, and uttering
a cry of agony sank into a chair, and hid his
face in his hands.
' Ambrose ! ' she murmured, bending over
him.
' Do not touch me,' he cried ; ' I have more
to tell you yet — something that must break the
last bond uniting us togetlier, and degrade me
for ever in your eyes. Alma, do not pity me ;
your pity tortures and destroys me, for I do
not deserve it — I am a villain ! Listen, then !
THE CONFESSION. 235
I betrayed you wilfully, diabolically ; for when
I w^ent through the niarriage ceremony with
you I knew that Mary Goodwin was still alive ! '
'You knew it ! — and, knowing it, you '
She paused in horror, unable to complete
the sentence.
' I knew it, for I had seen her with my own
eyes — so long ago as when I was vicar of Fensea.
You remember my visit to London ; you re-
member my trouble then, and you attributed if
to my struggle with the Church authorities.
That was the beginning of my fall ; I was a
coward and a liar from that hour ; for I had
met and spoken with my first wife.'
She shrank away from liim now, indeed.
The last remnant of his old nobility had fallen
from him, leaving him utterly contemptiljle and
ignoble.
236 THE NEW A BE LARD.
' Afterwards,' lie continued, ' I was like a
man for whose soul the ancfels of lii>ht and
darkness struggle. You saw my anguish, but
little guessed its cause. I had tried to fly from
temptation. I went abroad ; even there, your
heavenly kindness reached me, and I was
drawn back to your side. Then for a time I
forgot everything, in the pride of intellect and
newly acquired success. By accident, I heard
the woman had gone abroad ; and I knew well,
or at least I believed, that she would never
cross my path again. My love for you grew
hourly ; and I saw that you were unhappy, so
long as our lives were |)assed asunder. Then
in an evil moment I turned to my creed for
inspiration. I did not turn to God, for I had
almost ceased to believe in Him ; but I sought
justification from my conscience, which the
THE CONFESSION. 237
spirit of evil had already warped. I reasoned
with myself; I persuaded myself that I had
been a martyr, that I owed the woman no
faith, that I was still morally free. I examined
the law^s of marriage, and, the wish being
father to the thought, found in them only
folly, injustice, and superstition. I said to my-
self, " She and I are already divorced by her
own innumerable acts of infamy ; " I asked
myself, " Shall I live on a perpetual bondslave
to a form which I despise, to a creature who is
utterly unworthy ? " Coward that I was, I
yielded, forgetting that no happiness can be
upbuilt upon a lie. And see how I am
punished ! I have lost you for ever ; I have
lost my soul alive ! I, who should have been
your instructor in all things holy, have been
your guide in all things evil. I have brought
238 THE NEW ABELARD.
the curse of heaven upon myself. I have put
out my last strength in wickedness, and brought
the roof of the temple down upon my head.'
In this manner his words flowed on, in a
wild stream of sorrowful self-reproach. It
seemed, indeed, that he found a relief in
denouncing himself as infamous, and in
prostrating himself, as it were, under the heel
of the woman he had wronged.
But the more he reproached himself, the
greater her compassion grew ; till at last, in an
agony of sympathy and pain, she knelt down
by liis side, and, sobbing passionately, put her
arms around him.
'Ambrose,' she murmured, 'Ambrose, do
not speak so ! do not break my heart ! That
woman shall not come between us. I do not
care for the world, I do not care for the
THE CONFESSION. 239
judgment of men. Bid me to remain with you
to the end, and I will obey you.'
And she hid her face, blinded with weeping,
upon his breast.
For a time there was silence ; then the
clergyman, conquering his emotion, gathered
strength to speak again.
' Alma ! my darling ! Do not tempt me
with your divine goodness. Do not think me
quite so lost as to spare myself and to destroy
you. I have been weak hitherto ; henceforth
I will be cruel and inexorable. Do not waste
a thought upon me ; I am not worth it. To-
morrow I shall leave London. If I live, I will
try, in penitence and suffering, to atone ; but
whether I live or die, you must forget that I
ever lived to darken your young life.'
As he spoke, he endeavoured gently to
2 40 THE NEW ABE LARD.
disengage liims:^lf, but her arms were wound
about liim, and he could not stir.
' No,' she answered, ' you must not leave
me. I will still be your companion, your
handmaid. Grant me that last mercy. Let
me be your loving sister still, if I may not be
your wife.'
' Alma, it is impossible. We must part ! '
' If you go, I will follow you. Ambrose,
you will not leave me behind you, to die of a
broken heart. To see you, to be near you,
will be enough ; it is all I ask. You will
continue the great work you have begun, 'and
I — I will look on, and pray for you as before.'
It was more than the man could bear ; he
too began to sob convulsively, as if utterly
broken.
' God ! God ! ' lie cried, ' I forgot Thee
THE CONFESSION. 241
in mine own vain-glory, in my wicked lust of
happiness and power ! I wandered farther and
farther away from Thy altars, from my childish
faith, and at every step I took, my pride and
folly grew ! But now, at last, I know that it
w^as a brazen image that I worship — nay, worse,
the Phantom of my own miserable sinful self.
Punish me, but let me come back to Thee !
Destro}^, but save me ! I knoAv now there is
no God but One — the living, bleeding Christ
whom I endeavoured to dethrone I '
She drew her face from his breast, and
looked at him in terror. It seemed to her that
he was raving,
' Ambrose ! my poor Ambrose ! God has
forgiven you, as I forgive you. Y'ou have been
His faithful servant. His apostle V'
' I have been a villain ! I Ijave fallen, as
VOL. II. R
242 THE NEW ABELARD.
Satan fell, from intellectual vanity and pride.
You talk to me of the great work that I have
done ; Alma, that work has been wholly evil,
my creed a rotten reed. A materialist at heart,
I thought that I could reject all certitude of
faith, all fixity of form. My God became a
shadow, my Christ a figment, my morahty a
platitude and a lie. Believing and accepting
everything in the sphere of ideas, I believed
nothing, accepted nothing, in the sphere
of living facts. Descending by slow degrees
to a creed of shallow materialism, I justified
falseness to myself, and treachery to you. I
walked in my blind self-idolatry, till the solid
ground was rent open beneath me, as you
have seen. In that final hour of temptation,
of which I have spoken, a Christian would have
turned to the Cross and found salvation. What
THE CONFESSION. 243
was that Cross to me ? A dream of the poet's
brain, a symbol which could not help me. I
turned from it, and have to face, as my eternal
punishment, all the horror and infamy of the
old Hell'
Every word that he uttered was true, even
truer than he yet realised.
He had refined away his faith till it had
become a mere figment. Christ the Divine
Ideal had been powerless to keep him to the
narrow path, whereas Christ the living Law-
giver might have enabled him to walk on a
path thrice as narrow, yea, on the very edge of
the great gulf, where there is scarcely foothold
for a fly. I who write these hues, though
perchance far away as Bradley himself from
the acceptance of a Christian terminology, can
at least say this for the Christian scheme — that
b2
244 THE NEW ABE LARD.
it is complete as a law for life. Once accept
its facts and theories, and it becomes as strong
as an angel's arm to hold us up in hours of
weariness, weakness, and vacillation. The
difficulty lies in that acceptance. But for
common workaday use and practical human
needs, transcendentalism, however Christian in
its ideas, is utterly infirm. It will do when
there is fair weather, when the beauty of Art
will do, and when even the feeble glimmer of
sestheticism looks like sunlight and pure air.
But when sorrow comes, when temptation
beckons, when what is wanted is a staff to lean
upon and a Divine finger to point and guide,
woe to him who puts his trust in any transcen-
dental creed, however fair !
It is the tendency of modern agnosticism
to slacken the moral fibre of men, even more
THE CONFESSION. 245
than to weaken tlieir intellectual grasp. The
laws of human life are written in letters of
brass on the rock of Science, and it is the task
of true Eehcrion to read them and translate
them for the common use. But the agnostic
is as shortsighted as an oavI, while the atheist
is as blind as a bat ; the one will not, and the
other cannot, read the colossal cypher, inter-
pret the simple speech, of God.
Ambrose Bradley was a man of keen
intellect and remarkable intuitions, but he
had broadened his faith to so great an extent
that it became like one of many ways in a
wilderness, leading anywhere, or nowhere.
He had been able to accept ideals, never to
cope with practicalities. His creed was
beautiful as a rainbow, as many-coloured, as
capable of stretching from heaven to earth and
246 THE NEW ABELARD.
earth to heaven, but it faded, rainbow-Hke,
when the sun sank and the darkness came.
So must it be with all creeds which are not
solid as the ground we walk on, strength-giving
as the air we breath, simple as the thoughts of
childhood, and inexorable as the solemn verity
of death.
Such has been, throughout all success or
failure, and such is, practical Christianity.
Blessed is he who, in days of backsHding and
unbelief, can become as a httle child and lean
all his hope upon it. Its earthly penance and
its heavenly promise are interchangeable terms.
The Christian dies that he may live ; suffers
that he may enjoy ; relinquishes that he may
gain ; sacrifices his life that he may save it.
He knows the beatitude of suffering, which no
merely happy man can know. We who are
THE CONFESSION. 247
worlds removed from the simple faith of the
early world may at least admit all this, and
then, with a sigh for the lost illusion, go dis-
mally upon our way.
That night Ambrose Bradley found, to his
astonishment, that Alma was still at his mercy,
that at a word from him she ^YOuld defy the
world. Therein came his last temptation, his
last chance of moral redemption. The Devil
was at hand busily conjuring, but a hoher
presence was also there. The man's soul was
worth saving, and there was still a stake.
The game was decided for the time being
when the clergyman spoke as follows : —
' My darling, I am not so utterly lost as to
let you share my degradation. I do not
deserve your pity any more than I have
deserved your love. Your goodness only
248 THE NEW ABELARD.
makes me feel my own baseness twenty-fold. I
should have told you the whole truth ; I failed
to do so, and I grossly deceived you ; there
fore it is just that I should be punished and
driven forth. I have broken the laws of my
country as well as the precepts of my creed.
I shall leave England to-morrow, never to
return.'
' You must not go,' answered Alma. ' I
know that we must separate, I see that it is
sin to remain together, but over and above
our miserable selves is the holy labour to which
you have set your hand. Do not, I conjure
you, abandon that ! The last boon I shall ask
you is to labour on in the church I upbuilt
for you, and to keep your vow of faithful
service.'
' Alma, it is impossible ! In a few days,
THE CONFESSION. 249
possibly in a few hours, our secret will be
known, and then '
' Your secret is safe with me,' she replied,
' and I will answer for my uncle and my
cousin — that they shall leave you in peace. It
is I that must leave England, not you. Your
flight would cause a scandal and would destroy
the great work for ever ; my departure will
be unnoticed and unheeded. Promise me,
promise me to remain.'
' I cannot. Alma ! — God forbid ! — and
allow you, who are blameless, to be driven
foi'th from your country and your home ! '
' I have no home, no country now,' she
said, and as slie spoke her voice was full of
the pathos of infinite despair. ' I lost these,
I lost everything, when I lost you. Dearest
Ambrose, there is but one atonement possible
2 so THE NEW A BE LARD.
for botli of us ! We must forget our vain
happiness, and work for God.'
Her face became Madonna-like in its
beautiful resignation. Bradley looked at her
in wonder, and never before had he hated
himself so much for what he had done. Had
she heaped reproaches upon him, had she
turned from him in the pride of passionate
disdain, he could have borne it far better.
But in so much as she assumed the sweetness
of an angel, did he feel the misery and self-
scorn of a devil.
And, if the truth must be spoken, Alma
wondered at herself. She had thought at
first, when the quick of her pain was first
touched, that she must madden and die of
agony ; but her nature seemed flooded now with
a piteous calm, and her mind hushed itself to
THE CONFESSION. 251
the dead stillness of resignation. Alas ! she
had yet to discover how deep and incurable
was the wound that she had received ; how it
was to fester and refuse all healing, even from
the sacred unguents of religion.
' Promise me,' she continued after a pause,
' to remain and labour in your vocation.'
' Alma, I cannot ! '
' You must. You say you owe me repara-
tion ; let your reparation be this — to grant my
last request.'
' But it is a mockery ! ' he pleaded. ' Alma,
if you knew how hollow, how empty of all
living faith, my soul had become ! '
' Your faith is not dead,' she replied.
' Even if it be, He who works miracles will
restore it to life. Promise to do as I beseech
you, and be sure then of my forgiveness.
Promise ! '
252 THE NEW ABELARD.
' I promise,' he said at last, unable to resist
her.
' Good-bye ! ' she said, holding out her
hand, which he took sobbing and covered with
kisses. ' I shall go away to some still place
abroad where I may try to find peace. I may
write to you sometimes, may I not .5^ Surely
there will be no sin in that ! Yes, I will write
to you ; and you — you will let me know that
you are well and happy.'
' Alma ! ' he sobbed, falling on his knees
before her, ' my love ! my better angel ! I
have destroyed you, I have trampled on the
undriven snow ! '
' God is good,' she answered. ' Perhaps
even this great sorrow is sent upon us in mercy,
not in wrath, I will try to think so ! Once
more, good-bye ! '
THE CONFESSION, 253
Hs rose to his feet, and,- taking her tear-
drenched face softly between his hands, kissed
her upon the brow.
' God bless and protect you ! ' he cried.
' Pray for me, my darling ! I shall need all
your prayers ! Pray for me and forgive me ! '
A minute later, and he was left alone. He
would have followed her out into the night, as
far as her own door, but she begged him not
to do so. He stood at the gate, watching her
as she flitted away. Then, with a cry of
anguish, he looked towards his empty church
standing shadowy in the cold moonlight, and
re-entered his desolate home.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME
Spottiswoode dc Co., PrinUrs, Ni^w-strcet Square, London.
'wsa
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles
This book is DUE on die last date stamped below.
i
t iL
Buchai
lan -
oelard
-—
v.2
New Al
-
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
AA 000 366 660 9
PR
1^262
¥.1x2
v.2
