_TWENTY YEARS AFTER. AN EPILOGUE IN TWO PICTURES._
THE FIRST PICTURE.
_The Art of Religion._
The church was very full. It was the vigil of All Saints, and Father
Scott was to preach.
Far away, the culminating point of the long vista of shadowy arches,
stood the High Altar, blazing with lights. The choir had just taken
their stalls, and every head was bent low.
An orchestra was reinforcing the organ, and the long silver trumpets,
loved of old Purcell, shouted jubilantly, echoing away down the dim
clerestory.
Father Scott felt a strange thrill, an uplifting of the heart, at the
melody. He stood up in his stall with the rest, a man whose face still
showed a trend to the commonplace, but sweetened, almost refined away by
something else.
The little sisters of St. Cecily, sweet souls with whom he worked, said
among themselves that he had had a dear friend once whom he had loved,
and for whom he still mourned and prayed, and that it was this that made
him such an eminently lovable man.
Indeed, Sister Eliza had even read a novel he had written in his early
days, a mystic romance of a glorious youth who had never come to prime.
The music of the stately anthem swelled up in a burst of praise, the
trumpets singing high over all with keen vibratory notes that told of an
inner mystery to ears initiate. Then, when Father Gray, an old priest
whose days were nearly done, read the lesson, Scott leant back with
crossed hands, thinking of old times, of his youth. It seemed to him on
this great night of the Church that other and less earthly forms and
voices thronged the building. In the Creed, the words "communion of
saints" touched him strangely, as they always did; but to-night they
came home to him with a deeper meaning.
"God is so good," he thought simply. "Surely He has pardoned him for
that one sin. He was so pure and beautiful--very pleasant hast thou been
to me." His thoughts wandered disconnectedly, recalling sentences that
had struck him, old scenes and scraps of verse. The smell of the incense
brought back Cowley or the Sunday evening services at St. Barnabas. He
rejoiced in his heart at the stateliness and circumstance of worship
around him, and he recalled some old articles in the _Church Chimes_,
defending eloquently the "true ritual of holy Church." He had thought
them so good, he remembered, such a dignified answer to the other side.
The prayers began, each with its deep harmonized "Amen," which seemed to
him in his excited mind long-drawn gasps of thankfulness and worship. He
bent his head low in his hands, and prayed humbly for the Church's
welfare, and then, with an uplifting of his heart and a great
passionate yearning, for his dead friend. He felt very near to him on
this feast of the departed.
The time came for him to speak to the long rows of faces. He mounted to
the high pulpit in the sweep of the chancel arch, and looked down on the
congregation.
He began quietly enough, but gathered power and sonance as his feelings
swayed him, drawing for them a picture, an ideal, to which they might
all attain, telling them of the sweetness that comes with goodness. He
thought of the friend of his youth, and drew an exalted picture of him,
while the people sat breathless at the beauty of his words.
Then he said in a hushed voice how he had thought, and liked to think,
that round them to-night were the dear ones who had died, that they were
watching over them and praying with them that holy night.
Everyone felt the spell of the hour and the voice of the priest, it was
most unearthly, dramatic, and effective. Sister Eliza wiped her eyes and
thought of the novel, and only poor old Father Gray, worthy man, was
fast asleep in the chancel, tired by the long ceremonial day.
Then came the great procession round the church, with its acolytes and
crosses, Father Scott walking last in flowered cope. They sang, "For all
the saints who from their labours rest," waking a responsive echo in
every heart.
Last, and most impressive of all, the long spell of silent prayer,
broken at last by the crashing music, and the shuffling feet of the
congregation as they left the building. Sister Eliza, as she went out
into the cutting night wind, could not help thinking of the novel. It
was not a bad novel, but this is the true account.
THE SECOND PICTURE.
_A dinner in honour of the law._
"Well, my dear, and who have you got?" said the duchess.
"First of all there's Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, the new Q.C., _quite_ a
nice person."
"He is," said the duchess, "I've met him. Such eyes! Eliza Facinorious
said that he made her 'feel quite funny when he looked at her.' You
know the sort of person--makes you feel b-r-r-r-r-r! like that."
"I know," said the hostess. "Then Marjorie Burness is coming--such a
dear! knows all the latest stories about everyone."
"I don't think I've met her," said the duchess, "is she quite?"
"Not exactly; she was a Miss Lovibond--Lovering--some name like that.
Parson's daughter, Kensington people, dontcherknow; but so amusin'--fat,
too, she is."
"Oh!" said the duchess.
"Then there's a Mr. Sanderson Tom asked. He keeps a school board, or
wants the poor to live noble lives in Hackney--somethin' of that sort.
Eliza Facinorious and the Baron, Lady Darwin Swift, Mr. Justice Coll,
Bradley Bere, the new writin' boy, Lord Saul Horridge, and of course the
girls. That's all, I think."
"Oh!" said the duchess again.
She was rather a damaged duchess, and very impertinent, but Mrs.
Chitters was exceedingly glad to get her. She really _was_ a duchess,
which, if a woman has no brains, money, or comeliness, is the best
thing she can be. She was staying for a week with Colonel Chitters and
his wife.
The dinner was for the joy of Mr. Mordaunt Sturtevant, who had just
taken silk. The most eminent member of the criminal bar, he would have
been Queen's Counsel long ago if it had not been for some vague rumours
of his early life.
A footman opened the door, the duchess her eye-glasses, and Mrs.
Chitters the conversation. Mr. Bradley Bere was announced, a youth
apparently of seventeen, but of a great name; the rich uncleanness of
his life almost rivalling his stories, and both being given undue
prominence by his friends on the weekly press. Then came Lord Saul
Horridge, a tall melancholy man, whose life was crushed by an energetic
mother, whose forte was teetotalism, and whose weakness was omniscience.
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Burness came in, were effusively greeted by the
hostess, and passed on to amuse the duchess. Mrs. Burness, _née_
Marjorie Lovering, had grown too stout for flirtation, and feeling the
want of a _métier_, had turned her thoughts to scandal, and achieved a
great success. Her husband, a clerk in the War Office, used to say that
his wife had a higher regard for truth than anyone he knew--she used it
so economically.
Mordaunt Sturtevant and Mr. Justice Coll came in arm in arm, and soon
after they went down to dinner.
Sturtevant had grown two small whiskers, and his keen eyes, shaded by
bushy brows, made the duchess want to say "B-r-r-r-r-r!" several times
during the evening.
The Baroness Facinorious, an ample and various lady, was taken down by
Mr. Sanderson, the education person from Hackney, and they discussed the
latest thing in Chelsea churches.
Bradley Bere told Miss Chitters that poetry was the pursuit of the
unattainable by the unbearable, hoping she would repeat it as having
come from him.
Mr. Justice Coll alone was silent, his whole mind, no large part of
him, being given up to the business in hand.
When the gentlemen came up to the drawing-room Sturtevant sat down by
Mrs. Burness, and they discussed their host and hostess, both of them
telling Mrs. Chitters what the other had said later on in the evening.
When they got tired of scandal Mrs. Burness mentioned that her son had
just gone up to Oxford. "To Exeter, you know. Robert says it's an
excellent college. We went up for the 'Torgids,' I think they call
them--boatin' races, you know--and we had lunch in Bernard's rooms.
_Such_ nice rooms, all panelled in oak, and only next door to the Hall,
which must be _so_ convenient in wet weather, don't you think?"
"Have they a high-barred window in the corner looking out into B. N. C.
Lane?" said Sturtevant.
"Yes! do you know them?"
"I think so. I believe I used to know a man who had them years ago. He's
dead now."
"Oh, _how_ romantic! I must tell Bernard! Perhaps his ghost haunts
them! _Do_ tell me his name."
"A rather uncommon name--Yardly Gobion."
Mrs. Burness grew pale.
"I knew him when I was a girl," she said faintly.
The man gripped a little ornamental knob on the arm of the chair. The
people who were coming after the dinner were being announced. He heard
Sir Lionel and Lady Picton's names shouted from the door. It was a
curious evening.
"Were you a Miss Lovering before you married?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then you're Marjorie!"
"Yes," she said with a little smile, "I was Marjorie."
They were silent for a time, and their faces changed a little.
"Rather a fool, wasn't he?" Sturtevant forced himself to say at last.
"Oh, yes, we flirted a little, don't you know, but I always thought him
rather poor fun."
"Yes, he wasn't much. I remember when I was reading for the Bar I did
him a service, for which he was not in the least grateful."
"Yes, he was quite that sort of person."
"But still," said Sturtevant, "he was a man possessed of considerable
personal charm."
FINIS.
PLYMOUTH
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON
PRINTERS
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THE WHEEL OF LIFE.
A FEW MEMORIES AND RECOLLECTIONS ("_de omnibus rebus_").
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AN IMPORTANT WORK ON ELOCUTION.
THE ART OF ELOCUTION AND PUBLIC SPEAKING
_Being simple explanations of the various branches of Elocution;
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By ROSS FERGUSON
(TEACHER OF ELOCUTION).
INTRODUCTION BY GEORGE ALEXANDER
(_St. James' Theatre_)
Dedicated by permission to MISS ELLEN TERRY.
SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
=Bookman.=--"Good, clear-detailed advice by a practical teacher."
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=Era.=--"Each of the themes is treated without superfluous
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THE FELLOW PASSENGERS:
A MYSTERY AND ITS SOLUTION.
BY RIVINGTON PYKE
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_Long 12mo, 132 pp. Cloth_, =1/6=; _Sewed_, =1/-.=
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cannot do better than pick up 'Fellow Passengers.' The characters
are real men and women, and not the sentimental and artificial
puppets to which we have been so long accustomed by our
sensationalists. The book is brightly written, and of detective
stories it is the best I have read lately."
=Weekly Dispatch.=--"If you want a diverting story of realism,
bordering upon actuality, you cannot do better than take up this
bright, vivacious, dramatic volume. It will interest you from
first page to last."
=Bristol Mercury.=--"An exciting and thrilling story. It is very
ingeniously constructed and well worked out."
=Catholic Times.=--"This is a well written story, with a good plot
and plenty of incident. From cover to cover there is not a dull
page, and the interest keeps up to the end."
=Glasgow News.=--"It is a thriller.... The sort of book one cannot
help finishing at a sitting. Not merely because it is short, but
because it rivets.... The author uses his materials with great
ingenuity, his plot is cleverly devised, and he very effectively
works up to a striking _denouement_."
"For fear divine Philosophy
Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell."--TENNYSON.--_In Memoriam._
THE MOST WEIRD AND EXCITING NOVEL OF THE DAY!
A STARTLING STORY!
THE DEVIL IN A DOMINO,
A Realistic Study by CHARLES L'EPINE.
ATTRACTIVELY BOUND IN CLOTH COVER. _Price One Shilling._
REVIEWERS' REMARKS.
=Sketch.=--"It is a well-written story. An admirable literary
style, natural and concise construction, succeed in compelling
the reader's attention through every line. We hope to welcome the
author again, working on a larger scene."
=News of the World.=--"It combines excellent descriptive power with
a gruesome and fascinating plot, with sufficient mystery to keep
the interest well sustained. The story is built round a novel and
interesting incident of crime, and the literary style of the
writer makes acceptable horrors that otherwise would be too weird
for any but the strongest nerved readers."
=Weekly Dispatch.=--"A remarkable book. It reads like the
production of a bad nightmare, and produces a creepiness of the
flesh. Any reader desiring to sup on horrors can here find his
fill. The book possesses considerable literary merit."
=Star.=--"May be guaranteed to disturb your night's rest. It is a
gruesome, ghastly, blood-curdling, hair-erecting, sleep-murdering
piece of work, with a thrill on every page. Read it."
=Hampshire Telegraph.=--"The principal figure in the story, Aleck
Severn, is a perfect imp of Satan. His course of crime, and the
manner in which Nemesis finally overtakes him, is very
graphically told."
GREENING AND CO.,
20, CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD, LONDON, W.C.
Transcriber's Note. Very few changes have been made to the punctuation
and spelling in this book. The word Carodoc is now Caradoc and
Tannhaüser is Tannhäuser.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Hypocrite, by Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger Gull