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.