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 Then the two seemed to embrace and kiss 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 interview 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 evening dress of the ‘crushed strawberry’
tint, so much favoured by ladies of æsthetic leaning. 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——’
‘O, he’s 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 hardly 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 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 protect
you, when I see you likely to get into trouble.’
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 smiling; 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, 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 present 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 shoulders.
 ‘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 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 our 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 her secret discovered? For
her own part, she did not much care; indeed, she would have
rejoiced greatly to publish her great happiness to all the world; but
she respected Bradley’s wishes, and was resolute in keeping silence.
The young man rose to his feet, and continued eagerly:
‘Let me tell you, Alma, that I don’t believe 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 together over at Rouen, 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
more amused than annoyed by her cousin’s indignation.
‘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 nonsense 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, Alma betrayed less anger and astonishment than one
might have thought possible; for, though 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, wheeling, 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 repeated the sense
word for word with contemptuous 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 should like to see him try 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. O, I know! He preaches that marriage isn’t a sacrament
at all, but only a contract to be broken by the will of either party;
and as you agree with him in everything, I suppose you agree with
him in that, 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
embracing and kissing, and it turned me sick with shame. There, 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 like 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 this man, he
shall be exposed; he shall, by—! He is a scoundrel not lit 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, with 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 despised. Above all, she shrank, like all good
women, 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 photographic miniature of
Bradley, set in a golden locket. For a long time she looked at it
intently, through a mist of loving tears. Then she kissed it fondly.
‘He loves me!’ she murmured 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!”’
 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.

T
he next day was Sunday, and one of those golden days when
all things seem to keep the happy Sabbath. The chestnuts in
the great avenue of Regent’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 filling 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, journalists.
Bradley’s text that day was a significant and, as it ultimately
turned out, an ominous 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 Wordsworth; 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 ‘Divorce’—wherein it is shown by numberless 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 ranged
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 lifetime. 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 politician kindle almost angrily. For a moment, indeed,
the Prime Minister seemed about to spring to his feet and begin an
impassioned 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 characteristic 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 curiosity, 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 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, from Delilah downwards, who have
betrayed men, 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 impurity, 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 into the flower-strewn ways that lead to
heaven.
Alma, who was there, seated close under the pulpit, listened in a
very rapture of sympathetic 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 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 him, and, looking up with
haggard face, saw Alma approaching. 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.
‘I was afraid you were ill, dear—you went so pale as you were
preaching.’
 ‘No, I am not ill,’ he managed to reply.
‘I 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 darling, 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
breathe in freedom. I hate it, Alma! I hate everything in the world
but you!’
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 fulfil
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, standing on the threshold of
the vestry, Mrs. Montmorency.
 He started up wildly, while Alma, turning quickly, saw the cause of
his alarm.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the newcomer with a curious smile. ‘I
knocked at the door, but you did not hear me; so I took the liberty
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 like 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 a
private matter, but, if you wish it, this lady may remain until I have
finished.’
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 little familiar. Her eyebrows were
blackened, her lips painted, and her whole style of dress was
prononcé and extraordinary.
 The ees 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. Montmorency, shrugging her
shoulders. ‘Before I try to tell you, let me apologise for interrupting
your tête-à-tête with that charming lady.’
‘Do not speak of her! She is too good and pure even to be
mentioned by such as you.’
Mrs. Montmorency’s eyes flashed 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 together!’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I saw. You don’t mean to deny that I saw you in Normandy
some weeks ago, in company with Miss Craik?’
He took an angry turn across the room, 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 her ground.
‘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 overmastering, 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 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 resurrection 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 the
woman with whom he had to deal was no 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 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:
‘O 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.
 ‘Why did you 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 saying you are an atheist, and this church of yours, which you call
sacred, is a wicked 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 she 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 you are
more infamous, to deceive a lady you pretend to love.’
She paused, and looked at him. 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 disagreeable task to me!’
‘You will not tell her! No, no! It will 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 hands. After a moment’s hesitation, she
replied:
‘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.
 CHAPTER XVII.—COUNTERPLOT.
Master L. Good morrow, Mistress Light-o’-Love.
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 Lower, and slay them? Do so, good dame, and by Hecate’s
crows I will make thee rich, when I come unto mine own.—The
Game at Chess: a Comedy.

M
rs. Montmorency passed out into the sunshine, and speedily
found herself on the quiet carriage-way which encircles
Regent’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 general style were sufficiently peculiar to
attract considerable attention among the passers-by. For her dress,
as usual, was resplendent.

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 class to his
congregation. But she was not malicious for the mere sake of
malice; and she was altogether too indifferent to Bradley personally
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 reminding 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?’ he said questioningly.
‘Well!’ she repeated, smiling.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes. I found him 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 this
and that together, and I suppose there used to be something
between you. Is it anything which gives you a hold upon the
scoundrel now?’
‘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 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.
Really, 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 laughed aloud, while George
Craik continued:
‘Even if you could show that 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 cher. 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.’
 CHAPTER XVIII.—A SOLAR
BIOLOGIST
What’s this? Heyday! Magic! Witchcraft!
Passing common hedge and ditch-craft!
You whose sold 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!
Joke and Hysteria: a Medley *

* 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.—R. B.

L
ike most men famously or infamously familiar in the mouths of
the public, the Rev. Ambrose 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
questions in the nature 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 indignation.
Now, it so happened that on the very evening of his painful
interview with Mrs.
Montmorency, he received a personal visit from one of the class to
which we are alluding; and as the visit in question, though trivial
enough in itself, was destined to lead to important 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—-
 ‘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 doorway 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
remonstrance this person was in the room, holding out his hand,
which was small and thin, 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 introduction to you from our common friends and
fellow-workers, Ellerton and Knowlesworth.’ And he mentioned the
names of two of the leading transcendental thinkers of America, one
an eccentric philosopher, the other a meditative 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
Professor 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.
‘Let me introduce to your notice Professor Maplelcafe, who is on a
visit to Europe with his charming sister. You may have heard of both
in connection with the recent developments in American spiritualism.
The Professor 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 somewhat 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 eyebrows and eyelashes were almost white.
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,’ returned the Professor, gazing
up at him in real or assumed admiration. ‘You devote your seventh-
day evening to retirement and to meditation. Well, sir, I’m real
grieved to disturb you; but sister and I heard you 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 we’ve heard a few. After hearing 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.
 ‘Two months, sir. We have just come from Paris, where we were
uncommon well entertained by the American circle. You are aware,
of course, that my sister has transcendental gifts?’
‘That she is clairvoyante? So Knowlesworth 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 of this universe; our dependence and interdependence 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 nonsense.
‘Let me tell you frankly,’ he said, ‘that in all such matters as these I
am a pure materialist.’
‘Exactly,’ cried the Professor. ‘So are we, sir.’
‘Materialists?’
‘Why, certainly. Spiritualism is materialism; 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 understand you, there is no personal God?’
‘Of course not,’ returned the 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! 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 extraordinary 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?’
 ‘I think,’ answered Bradley, laughing contemptuously, ‘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, however, that from time
immemorial men of genius, eager for glimpses of a better life and a
serener state of things, had been led ‘by the nose,’ like Faust, by
charlatans. Now, Bradley, though 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; ‘spiritualistic 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:—

All 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 hut Chaos and primaeval Night.
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