The New Abelard: A Romance, Volume 2 (of 3)

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 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.

Mrs. 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 *

Like 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.

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 conditioned. 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 vulgar materialists consider the end of consciousness, is merely one of the many phenomena of change; and spiritualistic realities being indestructible——’

Bradley rose impatiently.

‘I am afraid,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I cannot discuss the matter any longer. Our opinions on the subject are hopelessly antagonistic, and to speak frankly, I have an invincible repugnance 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 thinking men.’

‘Well, well, sir, I won’t detain you at present,’ returned the Professor, not in the least ruffled. ‘Perhaps you will permit me to call upon you at a more suitable time, and to introduce my sister?’

‘Really, 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, of clairvoyance, and of thought-reading. The book of the Soul is open to her, and you would wonder at her remarkable divinations.’

‘I must still plead my entire scepticism,’ said Bradley coldly.

‘I guess Eustasia Mapleleafe would convert you. She was one of your congregation today, and between ourselves is greatly concerned on your account.’

‘Concerned on my account!’ echoed the clergyman.

‘Yes, sir. She believes you to be under the sway of 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 the human brain.’

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, he 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, I’ll write our address upon that card, and perhaps you will favour her with a call.’

As he spoke, he took up his own card 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 meditations 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 himself reminded of the odd propositions of the so-called biologist.

After all, there was something in the little man’s creed, absurd as it was, which brought a thinker face to face with the great phenomena of life and being. How wretched and 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, who would have flown like an eagle into 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, land examined them.

The first rather puzzled him, though he soon realised its character. It represented the little Professor, seated in an armchair, reading 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 like the filmy likeness seen in a smouldering fire. Beneath this picture was written in a small clear hand,—‘Professor Mapleleafe and Azaleus, a Spirit of the Third Magnitude, from the Evening Star.’

It was simply a curious specimen of what is known as ‘Spirit-Photography.’ The clergyman 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, elfinlike, but exceedingly pretty the eyes, which looked right out from the picture into those of the spectator, were wonderfully large, lustrous 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 returned 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 the 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.

He held the sun-picture again to the lamplight, 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 photograph.

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 the truth—that the little Professor had left the photographs in the room not by accident, but intentionally, and for a purpose which will be better understood at a later period of the present story.