The Infidel: A Story of the Great Revival

by M. E. Braddon

  CHAPTER XIII.

  IN ST. JAMES'S SQUARE.

  On the afternoon when she was expecting Mr. and Mrs. Stobart, LadyKilrush was surprised by a visit from an old friend whom she had almostforgotten. Her chair had just brought her from a round of visits, andshe had not yet removed her hat and cloak, which Sophy was waiting totake from her, being ever jealous of her lady's French maid, when avisitor was announced--

  "Mrs. Granger."

  The room was the fourth and smallest of a suite of reception-rooms,which occupied the whole of the first floor, leaving space only for thewide central staircase, surrounded by a gallery that was a favouriteresort of visitors at a crowded assembly, as a vantage-ground fromwhich they could watch arrivals, look out for their particular friends,and criticize "clothes."

  The room was half in dusk, and Antonia wondered who the little younglady in the cherry-coloured hood and satin petticoat of the same brighthue could be. It was not a colour favoured by people of taste at thattime, and the little plump person in the high hoop had not the air ofthe Portland set, that _recherche_ group of women among whom Antoniahad been received on a friendly footing, on the strength of her owncharms and Lady Peggy's popularity. Lady Peggy was of all the sets,best and worst, and exercised a commanding influence over all.

  "My dear creature, sure you won't pretend you've forgot me?" cried thelittle woman, with broad, outspoken speech, after her first mincingsalutation had been acknowledged by a stately curtsey and a "Yourhumble servant, madam."

  "Why, 'tis Patty!" exclaimed Antonia, holding out both her hands.

  "Yes, 'tis Patty--Mrs. Granger. Sure you remember old General Grangerthat you used to jeer at. I have been married to him over a year, andwe have handsome lodgings in Leicester Square, and I keep my chair; andif he outlives his two elder brothers and three nephews, I shall be apeeress."

  "My dear Patty, I am gladder than I can say to see your kind littleface again. Sit down, child. You must stop and dine with me. I havesome cousins coming to dinner, and some company afterwards."

  "Well, I'm glad you're glad. I thought you was too proud to rememberme, since you didn't send me a card for your ball t'other night, thoughall London was there."

  "I did not know what had become of you. I have asked ever so manypeople who knew the theatres, and no one could say where Miss Lesterhad gone since her name vanished from the playbills."

  "The General is a strait-laced old fool!" said Patty. "He doesn't likepeople to know I was an actress, though I flatter myself that nobodycan hear me speak or see me curtsey without discovering it. There's anair of high comedy that nobody can mistake. Sure 'tis in the hope ofcatching it that fine ladies take up Kitty Clive."

  "You mustn't call your husband a fool, Patty, especially if he's kindto you."

  "Oh, he's kind enough, but he's very troublesome with his pussy-cats,and Minettes, and nonsense; though, to be sure, Minette is a prettiername than Martha, and genteeler than Patty. And he's very close withhis money. I might have my coach as well as my chair if he wasn't amiser. I sometimes think I was a simpleton to leave the stage for ahusband of seventy. Sure I might have been another Mrs. Cibber."

  "You had been acting seven years, Patty. You gave your genius a fairchance."

  "Pshaw, there's some that don't begin to hit the taste of the town tillthey've been at it three times seven. Look at old Colley, for instance.The managers kept him down half a lifetime. When I look at this houseand think of my two parlours I feel I was a fool to marry the General.But there never was such a romance as your marriage."

  "My marriage was a tragedy, Patty!"

  "Ah, but you've got the comedy now. This fine house, and your hallporter--I never laid eyes on such a pompous creature--and your powderedfootmen. You're a lucky devil, Tonia."

  Antonia did not reprove her, being somewhat troubled in mind at thedoubt of her own wisdom in bringing this free-and-easy young person incompany with George Stobart and his wife. In her gladness at meetingthe friend of her girlhood she had forgotten how strange such a mixturewould be.

  "If 'tis not convenient to dine with me to-day, Patty, I shall be justas pleased to see you to-morrow, or the first day that would suit you."

  "Your ladyship--ladyship! oh, lord, ain't it droll?--your ladyship isvastly obleeging; but I came to stay if you'd have me. Granger is goneto Hounslow to dine with his old regiment, and I'm my own woman tillten o'clock. 'Twould be civil of you if you'd bid one of your footmentell my chairmen to fetch me at a quarter to ten, and then we can sitby the fire and talk over old times. This is Mrs. Potter's girl, Idoubt, she that waited upon us once when I took a dish of tea with you.How d'ye do, miss?"--holding out condescending finger-tips to Sophy,who had stood gazing at her since her entrance.

  "Yes, this is Miss Potter, my friend and companion. You can take my hatand Mrs. Granger's hood, Sophy, and come back when Mr. and Mrs. Stobartare here."

  When Sophy was gone, Lady Kilrush took Patty's plump cheeks between twocaressing hands and contemplated her with a smile.

  "You are as pretty as ever, child," she said, with an elder-sister air,as if she, instead of Patty, had been the senior by near a decade; "andI am glad to think you have left the playhouse and all its perils for acomfortable home with an honest man who loves you. Nay, I think you areprettier than you were in Covent Garden. The quiet life has freshenedyour looks. But you shouldn't wear cherry colour."

  "Because of my red hair?"

  "Because it is a cit's wife's colour, or a vain old woman's that wantsto look young. 'Tis not the mode, Patty."

  "My petticoat cost a pound a yard," said Patty, ruefully. "I thoughtthe General would kill me when he saw the bill."

  "Oh, 'tis pretty enough, and suits you well enough, _cherie_. I washalf in jest. I have a kind friend who lectures me upon all suchtrifles, and so I thought I'd lecture you. And, my dearest Patty, asthe cousin that's to dine with us is a very serious person, I shouldtake it kindly of you not to talk of the playhouse, nor to abuse yourhusband."

  "I hope I know how to behave in company," answered Patty, slightlyhuffed; and on Mr. and Mrs. Stobart being announced the next moment,she assumed a mincing stateliness which lasted the whole evening.

  Stobart thought her an appalling personage, in spite of her reticence.Her cherry satin bodice was cut very low, and her ample bosom wasspread with pearls and crosses like a jeweller's show-case. She madeup for a paucity of diamonds by the size of her topazes and theprofusion of her amethysts, and her Bristol paste buckles would havebeen big enough for the tallest of the Prussian king's grenadiers. LucyStobart, in her pearl-grey silk, made with a quaker-like simplicity,her pure complexion, golden-brown curls and slender shape, seemed allthe lovelier by the contrast of Mrs. Granger's florid charms; but poorPatty behaved herself with an admirable reserve, and uttered no wordthat could offend.

  Lucy looked at everything in a wondering rapture--the pictures, themarble busts on ebony and ormolu pedestals, the miniatures and jewelsand toys scattered on tables, the glass cabinets displaying the mostexquisite porcelain, the China monsters standing about the carpet, theconfusion of beautiful objects which met her gaze on every side almostbewildered her. She looked about her like a child at a fair.

  "And does your ladyship really live in this house?" she askedinnocently. "'Tis not like a house to live in."

  "Do you think it should he put under a glass case, or buried underburning ashes like Herculaneum, so that it may be found perfect andundisturbed two thousand years after we are all dead?" said Stobart,smiling at her.

  He was pleased with her fresh young prettiness, which was not disgracedeven by Antonia's imperial charms.

  "You see, madam, how foolish I have been to indulge my wife with asight of splendours which lie so far away from our lives," he said toAntonia, who accompanied them through the suite of drawing-rooms whereclusters of candles had just been lighted in sconces on the walls, toshow them the famous Gobelins tapestries that had once belonged toMadame de Montespan.

  "I dou
bt, sir, Mrs. Stobart is too happy in her rural life ever tosigh for a large London house and its obligation to live in company,"answered Antonia.

  "I love our cottage dearly when my husband is at home, madam; but Ihave to spend weeks and months with no companion but my baby son, whocan say but four words yet, while Mr. Stobart is wandering about thecountry with Mr. Wesley, and having sticks and stones aimed at himsometimes in the midst of his sermons. If your ladyship would persuadehim to leave off field preaching I should be a happy woman."

  "Nay, madam, I cannot come between a man and his conscience, howevermuch our opinions may differ; and if Mr. Stobart thinks his sermons dogood----"

  "'Tis a question of living in light or darkness, madam. Those who carrythe lamp John Wesley lighted know too well what need there is of theirlabours."

  "You go among great sinners?"

  "We go among the untaught savages of a civilized country, madam. Ifthere is need of God's word anywhere upon this earth, it is neededwhere we go. Thousands of awakened souls answer for the usefulness ofour labours."

  "And you are content to pass your life in such work? You have not takenit up for a year or so, to abandon it when the fever of enthusiasmcools?"

  "I have no such fever, madam. And to what should I go back if I tookmy hand from the plough? I have renounced the profession I loved, andhave forfeited my mother's affection. She was my only near relation.My wife and I stand alone in the world; we have no friend but God, noprofession but to serve Him."

  "I wonder you do not go into the Church."

  "The Church that has turned a cold shoulder upon Wesley and Whitefieldis no church for me. I can do more good as a free man."

  The door was flung open as the clock struck four, and Lady MargaretLaroche came fluttering in, almost before the butler could announce her.

  "My matchless one, will you give me some dinner?" she demanded gaily."I have been shopping in the city, hunting for feathers for my screen,and I know your hour. But I forgot you had visitors. Pray make usacquainted."

  "My cousin, Mr. Stobart, Mrs. Stobart, Mrs. Granger." Lady Peggy sankto the floor in a curtsey, smiled benignantly at Lucy, and put up herglass to stare disapprovingly at Patty's cherry-coloured bodice.

  Dinner was announced, and they went downstairs to that spaciousdining-room, which had been so gloomy an apartment when Lord Kilrushdined there in his later years, generally alone. The room had seenwilder feasts than any that Lady Kilrush was likely to give there,when her late husband was in his pride of youth and folly, the boldestrake-hell in London.

  The conversation at dinner was confined to Lady Margaret, Mr. Stobart,and Antonia; for Lucy had no more idea of talking than if she had beenin church, and Mrs. Granger only opened her mouth when obliged by thebusiness of the table, where two courses of eight dishes succeeded eachother in the ponderous magnificence of silver and the substantialityof mock-turtle soup, turkey and chine, chicken pie, boiled rabbits,cod and oyster sauce, veal and ham, larded pheasants, with jellies andpuddings, a bill of fare which, in its piling of Pelion upon Ossa,would be more likely to excite disgust than appetite in the modern_gourmet_. But in spite of such travelled wits as Bolingbroke, Walpole,Chesterfield, and Carteret, the antique Anglo-Saxon _menu_ stillobtained when George II. was king.

  "You are the first Methodist I have ever dined with," said Lady Peggy,keenly interested in a new specimen of the varieties of mankind, "so Ihope you will tell me all about this religious revival which has madesuch a stir among the lower classes, and sent Lady Huntingdon out ofher wits."

  "On my honour, madam, if but half the women of fashion in London wereas sane as that noble lady, society would be in a much better way thanit is."

  "Oh, I grant you we have mad women enough. Nearly all the clever oneslean that way. But I doubt your religious mania is the worst; and awoman must be far gone who fills her house with a mixed rabble ofcrazy nobility and converted bricklayers. I am told Lady Huntingdonrecognizes no distinctions of class among her followers."

  "Nay, there you are wrong, Lady Peggy," cried Antonia, "for Mr.Whitefield preaches to the quality in her ladyship's drawing-room, butgoes down to her kitchen to convert the rabble."

  "Lady Huntingdon models her life upon the precepts of her Redeemer,madam," said Stobart, ignoring this interruption. "I hope you do notconsider that an evidence of lunacy."

  "There is a way of doing things, Mr. Stobart. God forbid I should blameanybody for being kind and condescending to the poor."

  "Christians never condescend, madam. They have too acute a sense oftheir own lowness to consider any of their fellow-creatures beneaththem. They are no more capable of condescending towards each other thanthe worms have that crawl in the same furrow."

  "Ah, I see these Oxford Methodists have got you in their net. Well,sir, I admire an enthusiast, even if he is mistaken. Everybody inLondon is so much of a pattern that there are seasons when the wretchwho fired the Ephesian dome would be a welcome figure in company--sinceany enthusiasm, right or wrong, is better than perpetual flatness."

  "Lady Margaret has so active a mind that she tires of things soonerthan most of us," said Antonia, smiling at the lively lady, whosehazel eyes twinkled almost as brightly as the few choice diamonds thatsparkled in the folds of her Brussels neckerchief.

  "I confess to being sick of feather-work and shell-work, and the womenwho can think of nothing else. And even the musical fanatics weary mewith their everlasting babble about Handel and the Italian singers.There is not a spark of mind among the whole army of _conoscenti_.With a month's labour I'd teach the inhabitants of a parrot-house tojabber the same flummery."

  And then Lady Peggy turned to Mr. Stobart and made him talk about hisMethodists, as she called them, and listened with intelligent interest,and gave him no offence by her replies.

  "Our cousin is a very pretty fellow, and the wife has not an illfigure," she said to Antonia after dinner, in a corner of the innerdrawing-room, while Mrs. Stobart and Mrs. Granger sat side by side inthe great saloon, looking at a portfolio of Italian prints; "but how,in the name of all that's odious, did you come by that cherry-colouredperson?"

  "She is my old friend, an actress at Drury Lane, but now retired fromthe stage and prosperously married."

  "The creature has a pretty little face, but her clothes are execrable,and then the audacity of her shoulders! Such nakedness can only besuffered in a woman of the highest mode. Indecency with an ill-cut gownis unpardonable. Don't let her cross your threshold again, child."

  "Dear Lady Peggy, you are too good a friend for me to disoblige you;but I will never be uncivil to one who was kind when I was poor."

  "Well, well, you are a fine pig-headed creature, but if you must havesuch a friend, pray let your dressmaker clothe her. 'Twill cost youless than you will lose of credit by her appearance. Remember 'tis byyour women friends you will be judged. 'Tis of little consequence whatnotorious gamblers and rakes pass in and out of your great assemblies,so long as they are men of fashion; but your women must be of thehighest quality for birth, clothes, and breeding."

  'Twas six o'clock, and a bevy of footmen were busied in setting outa tea and coffee table with Indian porcelain and silver urn, and therooms began to be picturesquely sprinkled with elegant figures, like acanvas of Watteau's. It was a prettier scene than one of her ladyship'sgreat assemblies, for the fine furniture, the priceless china and otherornaments were undisturbed, and there was enough space and atmospherefor people to admire the rooms and each other.

  The Duchess of Portland and her chosen friend Mrs. Delany came sailingin, sparkling with gaiety, and tenderly embracing their matchlessOrinda. Everybody of mark in those days had a nickname, and Mrs.Delany, who had a genius for finding nonsense names, had hit upon thisone for Lady Kilrush; not because she was a poetess like the originalOrinda, but because the epithet "matchless" seemed appropriate to soperfect a beauty and twenty thousand a year.

  George Stobart stood in the curtained embrasure of a window,contemplating this elegant circ
le amidst which Antonia moved like agoddess, the loveliest where all had some claim to beauty, peerlessamong the _elite_ of womankind. Her grace, her ease, her dignity wouldhave become a throne, but every charm was natural, and a part ofherself; not a modish demeanour acquired by an imitative faculty--thesurface gloss of the low-born woman apt to mimic her betters. He couldnot withhold his admiration from charms that all the world admired,but the extravagance of the fashionable toilette disgusted him, andhe looked with angry scorn at brocades of dazzling hues interwovenwith gold and silver; court gowns of such elaborate decoration that aSpitalfields weaver might have worked half a lifetime upon a fabricwhere trees and flowers, garlands and classic temples, lakes andmountains were depicted in their natural colours on a ground of gold.He had been living among such people a few years ago, and had neverquestioned their right so to squander money; or, casually reckoning thecost of a woman's gala dress, or the wax candles burnt at a ball, hehad approved such expenditure as a virtue in the rich, since it mustneeds be good for trade. To-night as he stood aloof, watching thoseradiant figures, his imagination conjured up the vision of an alley inwhich he had spent his morning hours, going from house to house, witha famished crowd hanging on his footsteps, a scene of sordid misery hecould not remember without a shudder. Oh, those hungry faces, thosegaunt and spectral forms, skeletons upon which the filthy rags hungloose; those faces of women that had once been fair, before vice,want, and the small-pox disfigured them; those villainous faces of menwho had spent half their lives in jail, of women who had spent alltheir womanhood in infamy, and, mixed with these, the faces of littlechildren still unmarked by the brand of sin, children whom he longedto gather up in his arms and carry out of that hell upon earth, hadthere been any refuge for such! His heart sickened as he looked at thesplendour of clothes and jewels, pictures, statues, curios, and thoughthow many of God's creatures might be plucked from the furnace and seton the highway to heaven for the cost of all that finery.

  He was not altogether a stranger in that scene, for he saw several oldacquaintances among the company, but he felt himself out of touch withthem, and tried to escape all greetings and inquiries. And later, whenthe tables had been opened, and half the assembly were seated at whistor commerce, while the other half pretended to listen to a _pot-pourri_from Handel's "Semele," arranged for fiddles and harpsichord, which wasbeing performed in the saloon, he went to the inmost room where Lucywas sitting solitary beside the deserted tea-table.

  "Come, child," he said curtly, "we have had enough of this. 'Tis apleasure that leaves an ill taste in the mouth."

  His wife rose with alacrity. She had crept away from the music-room,dazzled by the splendour of the scene, and too shy to remain amongsuch magnificent people, who looked at her with a bland wonder throughjewelled eye-glasses.

  "I think there is to be a supper," she said hesitatingly.

  "Do you wish to stay for it?"

  "Nay, 'tis as you please."

  "I have no pleasure but to escape from this herd."

  Lucy saw that something had vexed him, and went hungry to bed, havingbeen too much embarrassed by the unaccustomed attentions of splendidbeings in livery to eat a good dinner.

  * * * * *

  There was nobody in the dining-room when Mr. and Mrs. Stobart wentto breakfast at nine o'clock next morning. George, who had sleptlittle, had been steeping himself in a grey fog in St. James's Parksince eight; but Lucy had found it more difficult to dress herself,encumbered by the officious assistance of one of Antonia's women, thanunaided in her own little bedchamber at Sheen.

  "Her ladyship takes her chocolate in her dressing-room," the butlerinformed Mr. Stobart, "and desires that you and your lady willbreakfast at your own hour," whereupon George and his wife seatedthemselves in the magnificent solitude of the dining-room, and atemoderately of a meal almost as abundant as the previous day's dinner,for what was less of substance upon the table was balanced by the coldjoints, pies, and poultry of the "regalia," or sideboard display.

  Lucy returned to her room directly after breakfast to pack her trunk,or rather to look on ruefully while her ladyship's woman packed it.Happily, all her garments were neat and in good condition, although ofa quaker-like plainness.

  George sat in the library, waiting till his wife should be ready fordeparture, and opened one book after another in a strange inability tofix his attention upon anything. How well he remembered that room, andhis last interview with his cousin! This was the table on which Kilrushhad struck his clenched fist, when he swore that not to secure a lifeof bliss would he marry beneath his rank. The mystery of his passionatewords, his violent gesture, was clear enough now. To his pride ofbirth, to a foolish reverence for trivial things, he had sacrificedhis earthly happiness. To the man who esteemed all things small incomparison with life eternal it seemed a paltry renunciation; yet therehad been a kind of grandeur in it, a Roman stoicism that could sufferfor an idea. And now that George Stobart knew the woman his cousin hadloved, her charm, her beauty, he could better understand the pangs ofunsatisfied love, the conflict between passion and pride.

  There were hot-house flowers in a Nankin bowl on the table, and a fireof coal and logs burnt merrily in the wide basket grate. The room had afar more cheerful aspect on this November morning than on that sultrysummer day, four years ago.

  On a side table by the fireplace Stobart noticed a pile of books richlybound in crimson morocco--the newest edition of Voltaire.

  "She reads and loves that arch mocker still, cherishes a writer whowould laugh away her hope of heaven, her belief in the Physician ofsouls. Beset with temptation, the cynosure of profligates, she rejectsthe only rock that stands firm and high, a sure refuge when the wavesof passion sweep over the drowning soul."

  He remembered the world he lived in five years ago, a world that seemedas far away as if those years had been centuries. He knew that of themen who surrounded Lady Kilrush with the stately adulation courtiersoffer to queens there was scarce one who was not at heart a seducer,who would not profit by the first hint of human weakness in theirgoddess. And she was alone, motherless, sisterless, without a friend ofher own blood, alone among envious women and unprincipled men.

  "Of all those fine gentlemen who prate of honour, and would rathercommit murder than submit to a trumpery impertinence, I doubt if thereis one who would scruple to act unfairly by a woman, or who would holdhimself bound by the impassioned vows that cajoled her into sin," hethought.

  He looked into the crimson-bound octavos, tossing them aside one byone. They were not all of them deadly, but the poison was there; inthose satirical romances, in those "Questions sur l'Encyclopedie," inthose notes upon ancient history, on page after page he might havefound the same deadly mockery, the same insidious war against theChristian faith, _l'Infame_.

  The door was flung open by a footman, and Antonia appeared beforehim, radiant in the freshness of her morning beauty, unspoilt byeighteenth-century washes and pigments. She was dressed for walking,in a sea-green lute-string and a pink gauze hat, her elbow-sleeves andthe bosom of her gown ruffled with the same pale pink, and she worelong loose straw-coloured Saxony gloves, wrinkled here and there fromwrist to elbow. Her only jewels were diamond solitaire ear-rings anda diamond brooch with a pear-shaped pearl pendant, one of the famousKilrush pearls, from the treasures of the Indian merchant, the spoil ofkings and rajahs.

  They shook hands, and she hoped he and Mrs. Stobart had breakfastedwell.

  "I take my own breakfast in my dressing-room with a book," she saidapologetically, "because that is the only hour I can feel sure of beingalone. Morning visits begin so early. I am deep in 'Sir Charles.'Incomparable man!"

  "'Sir Charles?'" he faltered. "Oh, I understand. You are readingRichardson's new novel--a tedious, interminable book, I take it."

  "Tedious! I tremble for the day when I finish it. The world will seemempty when I bid Harriet and Clementina farewell. But I shall returnagain and again to those dear creatures. I wish myse
lf a bad memory fortheir sakes."

  "Oh, madam, to be thus concerned about the flimsy creations of an oldprinter's idle brain!"

  "Idle! Do you call genius idle? There was never another Richardson. Ifear there never will be. A hundred years hence women will weep forClarissa, and men will model themselves upon Grandison."

  "It saddens me, madam, to see you as enthusiastic about a paltryfiction as I would have you about the truths of the gospel. And Isee with pain that you still cherish the works of the most notoriousblasphemer in Europe."

  "The man who stands up like little David against the Goliath ofintolerance; the man who has rescued the Calas family from undeservedinfamy, cleared the name of that unhappy victim of a persecutingpriesthood, condemned, not because it was clear that he was a murderer,but because it was certain that he was a Protestant."

  "I own, madam, that in his fight for a dead man's honour, Monsieurde Voltaire acted handsomely. I am sorry that he who did so much forthe love of his neighbour should spurn the gospel which instils thatvirtue."

  "Voltaire loved his neighbour without being taught, or say rather thathe can accept all that his reason approves in the teaching of Jesus ofNazareth, while he rejects the traditions of the Roman Church."

  "Nay, did he stop _there_ I were with him heart and soul. But he doesmore. He turns the Gospel light to darkness. Would to God, madam, thatyou could find a wiser guide for your footsteps through a world whereSatan has spread his worst snares in the fairest places."

  "Mr. Stobart," she said, looking at him gravely, her violet eyesdarkened to black under the rosy shadow of her hat, "I sometimes wish Icould believe in Christ the Saviour; but I would not if I must believealso in Satan. Let us argue no more upon theology; I only shock you.My coach is at the door, and I want to take Mrs. Stobart to an auctionwhere I believe she will see the finest collection of Nankin monstersand willow-pattern tea-things that China has sent us since last winter.'Tis the first sale of the season, and all the world will be there, andtwenty who go to stare and chatter for one who means to buy."

  "Your ladyship is vastly kind, but my wife and I must travel by theRichmond coach, which leaves the Golden Cross at noon. I have to thankyou in her name and my own for your kind hospitality."

  "Oh, sir, don't thank me. Only promise that you will come to see meagain, and often. We will not talk about serious things, lest we shouldquarrel."

  "Madam, if I come into this house again we must talk of serious things.Can I pretend to be your friend, see you living without God in theworld--I who believe in His judgments as I believe in His mercies--andnot try to save a beautiful soul that I see hovering above the pit ofhell? Can I be your friend, and hold my peace?"

  "Nay, sir, leave my soul to your God. If He is all you believe, He willnot let me perish."

  "If you are obstinate and deny Him He will cast you out. He has givenyou talents for which you have to render an account, intellect, forceof will, wealth, and the power that goes with it. I will come to thishouse no more to see you wasting yourself upon insipid amusements,listening to idle flatteries, smiling upon sybarites and fops, movingfrom one to another, false alike to all, since all are your inferiors,and you can esteem none of them. Your coquetries, your friendships arealike hollow, as artificial as your swooning curtsey, taught by Serise,the dancing-master."

  "Oh, sir, are all the Oxford Methodists as rude as you?"

  "Forgive me, madam. I cannot stoop to that smooth lying that goes bythe name of politeness. 'Now, now is the accepted time, now is theday of salvation.' My heart yearns to snatch a sinner from doom. Fiveyears ago I should have been among your admirers, should have burnt theincense of vain adulation before you, as at the shrine of a goddess,should have been made happy with a smile, ineffably blessed by a civilword. But I have lived aloof from your _beau monde_, and I come back todiscover what a Sodom it is. The company I once loved fills me withdisgust and loathing. I see the flames of Tophet behind your galaxyof wax candles, the rags of lost sinners under your gold and silverbrocade. I will come here no more."

  He moved towards the door, she following him, holding out both herhands.

  "Mr. Stobart, you make life a tragedy. I protest that some of myfriends in gold and silver brocade are as good Christians as even yourkindness could desire me to be. They are more fortunate than I am innever having been taught to question the creed that satisfied theirfathers and grandfathers. I sometimes wish I had less of the doubtingspirit. But pray do not let theological differences part us. You andyour wife are a kind of relations, for you are of my dear husband'sblood; I can never forget that. Come, sir, let us be reasonable," sheexclaimed, seating herself at the table, and motioning him to theopposite chair.

  She was sitting where Kilrush had sat during that last interview withhis kinsman, in the same high-backed chair, the bright colouring of herface and hat shining against a background of black horsehair.

  "What do you want me to do? Of what sins am I to repent?" she asked,smiling at him. "I try to help my fellow-creatures, to be honest andtruthful and kind. What more can I do?"

  "Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor."

  "I cannot do that. I think I have a right to be happy. Fate has flungriches into my lap; and I love the things that money buys--this house,foreign travel, ease and splendour, pictures, music, the friends thatwealth and station have brought round me. I love to mix with the saltof the earth. And you want me to renounce all these things, and to liveas Jesus of Nazareth lived--Jesus, the Son of Joseph the carpenter."

  "Jesus, the Son of God, who so lived His brief life on earth to be forall mankind an example."

  "And are we all to be peasants?"

  "Believe me, madam, there is only one perfect form of the Christianlife, and that is the imitation of Christ."

  "You would make this a hateful world if you had your way, Mr. Stobart."

  "I would make it a Christian world if I could, Lady Kilrush."

  "Well, sir, let me help you with your poor. I should like to dothat, though I do not mean to sell this house, or the jewels that myhusband's grandfather brought from the East Indies. I can spare a gooddeal for almsgiving, and yet sparkle at St. James's. Take me to seeyour poor people at Lambeth. Bring their sorrows nearer to my heart. Iknow I am leading a foolish, idle life, made up of gratified vanitiesand futile fevers, but 'tis such a pleasant life. I had my day ofdrudgery and petty cares, the struggle to make one shilling go as faras five, and my heart dances for joy sometimes among the pleasuresand splendours in which I move to-day. But be sure I have a heart topity the suffering. Let me go with you to Lambeth. I will buy no chinadragons to-day; and the money I put in my purse to waste on toys shallbe given to your poor. Take me to them to-day. You can go back to Sheenby a later coach."

  He refused at first, protesting that the places to which he went wereno fitting scenes for her. She would have to confront vice as well aspoverty--revolting sights, hideous language, Lazarus with his sores,and a blaspheming Lazarus--things odious and things terrible.

  "I am not afraid," she answered. "If there are such things we ought toknow of them. I do know that vice and sin exist. I am not an ignorantgirl. I was not born in the purple."

  She was impetuous, resolute, insistent, and she overruled all hisobjections.

  "You will be sorry that I let you have your way," he said at last, "andI am foolish so to humour a fine lady's whim."

  "I am not a fine lady to-day. There is more than one side to mycharacter."

  "If you mean to come with me, you had best put on a plainer gown."

  "I have none plainer than this. 'Tis no matter if I spoil it, for I amtired of the colour. Oh, here is Mrs. Stobart," she cried, as a servantushered in Lucy, who entered timidly, looking for her husband.

  "Your ladyship's servant," she murmured with a curtsey. "Is it time forus to go home, George?"

  "Time for me to take you to the coach, Lucy. I shall spend the dayamong my people."

  "And I am to go home alone," his wife said ru
efully.

  "I shall be with you by tea-time, and you will have your boy and aworld of household cares to engage you till then."

  She brightened at this, and smiled at him.

  "I'll warrant Hannah will not have dusted the parlour," she said. "Oh,madam, we have such pretty mahogany furniture, and I do love to keep itbright. There's nothing like elbow-grease for a mahogany table."

  "I know that by experience, child. I have used it myself," Antoniaanswered gaily.

  She was pleased and excited at the idea of a plunge into the mysteriesof outcast London. She had been poor herself, but had known only theshabby genteel poverty which keeps shoes to its feet and a weathertightroof over its head. With want and rags and filth she had never come incontact save in her brief glimpse of the Irish and English towns atLimerick; and looking back upon that experience of a brain overwroughtwith grief, it seemed to her like a fever-dream. To-day she would goamong the abodes of misery with a mind quick to see and understand.Surely, surely she could do her part in the duty that the rich owe thepoor without selling all that she had, without abrogating one iotaof the sumptuous surroundings so dear to her romantic temper, to herinnate love of the beautiful.

  She kissed Mrs. Stobart at parting, and promised to visit her at Sheenthe first day she was free of engagements.

  George found her chariot at the door when he came back from despatchinghis wife in the Richmond stage.

  "Come, come," she said, "let us hasten to your poor wretches. I amdying to give them the guineas I meant for my monsters."

  "Faith, madam, you will find monsters enough where we are going, butnot such as a fine lady could display on her china cupboard."

  Mr. Stobart stopped the carriage on the south side of WestminsterBridge.

  "If you are not averse to walking some little distance, it might bewell to send your carriage home," he said. "I can take you back to yourhouse in a hackney coach;" and on this the chariot was dismissed.

  "You shall not go a yard out of your way on my account," she said. "Iam not afraid of going about alone. The great ladies I know would swoonif they found themselves in a London street unattended; but I am notlike them."

  He gave her his arm, and they threaded their way through a labyrinthof streets and alleys that lay between the Thames and the waste spacesof Lambeth Marsh, a dreary region where the water lay in stagnantpools, receptacles for all unconsidered filth, exhaling putrid fever.Here and there above the forest of chimneys and chance medley ofroofs and gables there rose the bulk of a pottery, for this was thechosen place of the potter's art; but for the rest the desolate regionbetween Stangate and the New Cut was given over to poverty and crime.Fine old houses that had once stood in the midst of fair gardens hadbeen divided into miserable tenements, and swarmed like anthills withhalf-starved humanity; alleys so narrow that the sunshine rarelyvisited them, covered and crowded the old garden ground; four-storiedhouses, built with a supreme neglect of such trifles as light and air,overshadowed the low hovels that had once been rustic cottages smilingacross modest flower-gardens.

  Mr. Stobart came to a halt in a lane leading to the river, where a rowof rickety wooden houses hung over an expanse of malodorous mud. Thetide was out, and a troop of half-naked children were chasing a starveddog, with a kettle tied to his tail, through the slime and slush of theforeshore.

  "Oh, the poor dog!" cried Tonia, as they stood on a causeway at the endof the lane. "For pity's sake stop those little wretches!"

  George called to them, but they only looked at him, and pursued theirsport. Had he been alone he would have given the little demons chase,but he could not risk bespattering himself from head to foot in alady's company.

  "There is but one way to stop them," he said, "and that is to teachthem better. We are trying to do that in our schools, but the taskneeds twenty-fold more men and more money than we can command. 'Twouldshock you, no doubt, to see how the children of the poor amusethemselves; but I question if there is more cruelty to the brutecreation among those unenlightened brats than among the children ofour nobility, who are bred up to think a cock-fight or a stag-hunt thesummit of earthly bliss. Jim Rednap," he shouted, as the chase doubledand came within earshot, "if you don't untie that kettle and let thedog go, I'll give you a flogging that will make you squall."

  The biggest of the boys looked up at this address, recognized awell-known figure, and called to his companions to stop. They halted,their yells ceased, and the hunted cur scrambled up the slippery stonesteps, at the top of which Antonia and Stobart were standing. He caughtthe dog, took off the kettle, and flung it into the river. The boyRednap came slowly up the steps.

  "'Twarn't me that begun it," he said sheepishly.

  "'Twas you that should have stopped it. You're bigger and older thanthe others. You are twice as wicked, because you know better. Whatwill your poor mother say when I tell her that you take pleasure intormenting God's creatures?"

  He was stooping to pat the half-starved mongrel as he spoke to the boy,and perhaps that tender touch of his hand and his countenance as helooked at the beast, was a better lesson than his spoken reproof.

  "See," Antonia said, dropping a shilling into the boy's grimy palm."Fetch me twopenn'orth of bread for the dog, and keep the change foryourself."

  The boy stared, clutched the coin, and ran off.

  "Will he come back?" asked Antonia.

  "Yes; he's not as bad as he looks. His mother is one of the lost sheepthat the Shepherd has found. Her season of repentance will be butbrief, poor soul, since she is marked for death; but she leans on Himwho never turned the light of His countenance from the penitent sinner."

  "Is the boy's father living?"

  George Stobart shrugged his shoulders.

  "Who knows? She does not, poor wretch! He is dead for her. She hasthree children, and has toiled to keep them from starving till she hasfallen under her burden."

  "Let me provide for them! Let her know that they will be cared forwhen she is gone. It may make her last hours happy," said Antonia,impetuously.

  "I will not hinder you in any work of beneficence; but among so manyand in such pressing need of help it would be well to take time, and toconsider how you can make your money go furthest."

  "I will buy no more foolish things--trumpery that I forget or sickenof a few hours after 'tis bought. I will go to no more china auctions,squander no more guineas at Mrs. Chenevix's. Oh, Mr. Stobart, I knowyou despise me because I am like the young man in the gospel story. Iam too rich not to be fond of riches. But indeed, sir, I do desire tohelp the poor."

  "I believe it, madam, and that God will bless your desires. 'Tis noteasy for a woman in the bloom of youth and beauty to take up the crossas Lady Huntingdon has done--to dedicate all she has of fortune andinfluence to the service of Christ. 'Twere cruel to reproach you forfalling short of so rare a perfection."

  "I have been told that Lady Huntingdon leaves it to doubters like me tofeed the hungry and clothe the naked--since the cry of the destituteappeals to all alike--and that she devotes all her means to payingpreachers, and providing chapels."

  "That, madam, is her view of Christ's service; and I doubt she isright. When all mankind believe in Christ, there will be no more wantand misery in this world; for the rich will remember that to refusehelp to His poor is to deny Him."

  The boy came back, breathless with running, and carrying a twopennyloaf in his grimy paw. He had gnawed off a corner crust as he ran.

  "Dogs don't love crust," he remarked apologetically, as he knelt downin the dirt and fed the famished cur.

  He went with them presently to his mother's garret, where Antonia satby the woman's bed for half an hour, while Stobart read or talked toher. His tenderness to the sick woman and the reasonableness of all hesaid impressed even the unbeliever. His words touched her heart, thoughthey left her mind unconvinced. The room showed an exceeding poverty,but was cleaner than Antonia had hoped to find it; and she could butsmile upon discovering that Mr. Stobart had helped the three childrento
scrub the floor and clean the windows in the course of his lastvisit, and had made Jim, the eldest of the family, promise to brush thehearth and dust the room every morning, and had supplied him with abroom, and soap, and other materials for cleanliness. The boy was hismother's sick nurse, and was really helpful in his rough way. The othertwo children attended at an infant school which Stobart had set up in aroom near, at a minimum cost for rent and fire. The teachers were threeyoung women of the prosperous middle-classes, who each worked two daysa week without remuneration.

  After this quiet visit to the dying woman, Stobart led Lady Kilrushthrough crowded courts and alleys, where every object that her eyesrested on was a thing that revolted or pained her--brutal faces;famished faces; lowering viciousness; despairing want; brazen impudencethat fixed her with a bold stare, and then burst into an angry laugh ather beauty, or pointed scornfully to the diamonds in her ears. Insolentremarks were flung after her; children in the gutters larded theirspeech with curses; obscene exclamations greeted the strange apparitionof a woman so unlike the native womanhood. Had she been some freak ofnature at a show in Bartholomew Fair, she could scarcely have beenlooked at with a more brutal curiosity.

  Stobart held her arm fast in his, and hurried her through the filthythrong, hurried her past houses that he knew for dangerous--houses inwhich small-pox or jail fever had been raging, fever as terrible asthat of the year '50, when half the bar at the Old Bailey had beenstricken with death during the long hours of a famous trial for murder.Jail birds were common in these rotten dens where King George's poorhad their abode, and they brought small-pox and putrid fever home withthem, from King George's populous prisons, where the vile and theunfortunate, the poor debtor and the notorious felon, were herded cheekby jowl in a common misery. He was careful to take her only into thecleanest houses, to steer clear of vice and violence. He showed her hisbest cases--cases where gospel teaching had worked for good; the peoplehe had helped into a decent way of life; industrious mothers; piousold women toiling for orphaned grandchildren; young women, redeemedfrom sin, maintaining themselves in a semi-starvation, content todrudge twelve hours a day just to keep off hunger.

  Her heart melted with pity, and glowed with generous impulses. Sheclasped the women's hands; she vowed she would be their friend andhelper, and showered her gold among them.

  "Teach me how to help them," she said. "Oh, these martyrs of poverty!Show me how to make their lives happier."

  "Be sure I shall not be slack to engage your ladyship in good works,"he answered cordially. "If you will suffer me to be your counsellor youmay do a world of good, and yet keep your fine house and your Indianjewels. Your influence should enlist others in the crusade againstmisery. It needs but the superfluous wealth of all the rich to save thelives and the souls of all the poor."

  He was hurrying her towards a coach stand, through the deepening gloomof November. They had spent more than three hours in these haunts ofwretchedness, and the brief day had closed upon them. The lights onWestminster Bridge and King Street seemed to belong to another world asthe coach drove to St. James's Square. Stobart insisted on accompanyingAntonia to her own door, and took leave of her on the threshold withmuch more of friendship than he had shown her hitherto. He seemed toher a changed being since they had walked through those wretched alleystogether. Hitherto his manner with her had been stiff and constrained,with an underlying air of disapproval. But now that she had seen himbeside a sick-bed, and had seen how he loved and understood the poor,and how he was loved and understood by them, she began to realize howgood and generous a heart beat under that chilling exterior. The ideaof a man in the flower of his youth flinging off a profession he loved,to devote his life to charity appealed to all her best feelings.

  "I shall wait on your wife to-morrow morning," she said. "You will havetime before I come to decide what I can do to help those poor wretches.Their white faces would haunt my dreams to-night if I did not knowthat I could do something to make them happier."

  "Sleep sweetly," he answered gently. "You have a heart to pity thepoor."

  He bent over her gloved hand, touched it lightly with his lips, andvanished as she crossed her threshold, where the hall-porter and threepompous footmen gave a royal air to her entrance.