The Creed of Philip Glyn

Front matter

NOW READY UNIFORM WITH THIS ISSUE THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER. By A. Canon Doyle. \\Eighth Edition. OLIVER'S BRIDE: A True Story. By Mrs Oliphant. [Second Edition. THE MASTER OF THE SILVER SEA. By Morley Roberts. THE BISHOP'S DELUSION. By Alan St AUBYN. BY Hon. Mrs ALAN BRODRICK ' There is only one " outer darkness," where God, that is Love, is not.1 ' There are moments when our passions speak and decide for us, and we seem to stand by and wonder. They carry with them the inspiration of a crime, which, in one instant, does the work of long premeditation.* George Eliot. LONDON WARD & DOWNEY LIMITED i2 YORK BUILDINGS, ADELPHI, W.C CONTENTS

, 84

Part II Chapter I., 103

CHAPTER II.

, 118

CHAPTER III.

, 127

CHAPTER IV.

, 139

CHAPTER V

, THE CREED OF PHILIP GLYN

PART I CHAPTER

I A man with a somewhat defiant air, a dare devil chin with a dent in the middle, evidences of a determined will stamped on every feature except his eyes, which were a tender, thought ful blue— such was Keith Transome, artist, who had returned to England six months ago in his capacity of Special War Correspondent to an illustrated paper. He had just accompanied Jean Bruce and another lady to the doctor's house, in Fairstoke village, after the Marine ball in Easter week, and now he had returned to his rooms in a small row of houses facing Haslar creek. He was staying in the neighbourhood of Chrisport for the present, being engaged in painting a picture of Portsmouth Harbour for the Naval Exhibition. A It was past two o'clock in the morning, but he was too excited to feel tired, and did not care to go to bed just yet.

He turned on the gas in his sitting-room, and then stretched himself in an arm-chair and lighted his pipe. He had had a rare good time that evening ; been happier than he had ever hoped to be again. Fate was going to smile on him after all ; that one hideous mistake of his youth was not to blight his whole life! He took the pipe out of his mouth and ruminated a moment ; evidently the subject of his thoughts was painful. Then he said aloud, — ' I will tell her afterwards, when I am sure of her, when she has promised to be my wife. After all, there is no special reason why I should tell her now. I am free, free as air. There was no wrong in the past — -only misery. I did nothing to be ashamed of. Ought I to have told her ? I dared not. It might have injured her first impressions of me to know I had only been a widower a month when I met her first.

I could not have told her the whole story then ; I can when I am sure of her, when she belongs to me. To-morrow I will ask her to be my wife. Thank God ! I have an income of my own, independent of my art. I can afford to marry. There's a chance for me, Jean, if you will take me in hand, if I can say my little Jean ! ' The man's face glowed under the gaslight. All the hardness melted out of it ; it quivered with tenderness. Then his eyes fell on a letter addressed to him j it stood out startlingly white on the scarlet baize table-cloth. The letter was in a strange handwriting. Keith took it up without a thought of misgiving — his fears had all been laid to rest months ago, There was no doubt, no shadow of a doubt, that all on board the Caledonia had perished. These were the words which Keith read under the flaring gaslight : — ' Dear Sir, — I was called in to see your wife the evening before the Caledonia sailed.

She was dangerously ill from the effects of an internal injury, the result of an accident while driving. I fear she could hardly have been in a fit state to manage a somewhat restive horse. I was in constant attendance upon her for some weeks. On her recovery, I ascertained that she had taken her passage in the Caledonia, and no doubt her name was published amongst the lost passengers, as her luggage was on board. She persistently refused to _ive me her real name. I believe she wished you to think she was dead. It was only yesterday that I accidentally dis covered her identity, and your address. If I had not done so, you would probably never have become aware of the fact that your wife is still living. She intended to go far up the country into Burmah, and "lose herself" under an assumed name.

She entreated me to keep her secret, but I need not say I refused to run the risk, or undertake the responsibility of allowing you to consider yourself free, when your wife is undoubtedly alive. She is aware that you have lost all affection for her, since she became an habitual drunkard, and I think she prefers freedom to the restraint of your presence. She has un doubtedly inherited the tendency to dipso mania from her father, who died in a lunatic asylum. These are sorrowful cases, which baffle the doctors, but your duty as a husband remains clear — to protect and do all that lies in your power for your unfortunate wife. I have told her I am writing to you. Her plan of concealment she knows, therefore, to be hopeless. I will see that she leaves India by the next steamer, which starts on the 1 2th. — Yours faithfully, ' Reginald Chene.' Keith staggered to a chair and sat down with the dreadful letter in his hand.

No need to read it a second time — the words had burnt themselves into his brain. A wild outcry against fate, against God, was his first impulse. To have had this vision of freedom — this glimpse of Paradise, and then to be forced to go back into Hell. Oh, it was hard — horrible — impossible ! He clenched his hand. ' I wish I had named my marriage to Mr Bruce ; but the subject was so painful, I could not bear it. I meant to tell him afterwards — afterwards, if I could only get Jean to say she loved me. It was degradingto have to mention my one miserable year with a drunken wife. There was no need to tell them. I thought I was free ; it was while I thought so that I began to love Jean. No wonder I have learnt to love her during these last few months, when I have seen her almost every day ; and I am beginning to think she loves me.' Keith shuddered as scenes in the pano rama of his past flashed before him.

The home-coming without his wife, in order to pre pare his mother for the shock of his marriage ; the dull dreariness of the weeks in England with the expectation of Juliet's landing in the Caledonia by the next home ward bound steamer, then — he seemed to see the sheet of the Times in front of him with the staring, black letters — ' Total loss of the Caledonia with all lives — ' Pie remembered how, after his first sensation of awe and solemnity, he could not refrain from the heart-leap of joy that he was free — that the load was gone which had almost over whelmed him. The sense of freedom had been intoxicating. He had raised no barriers against himself, but had yielded at once to the overmastering fascination of Jean Bruce's sweet presence. She had come into his life with all the sharpness of contrast ; her bright attractive ness standing out against a background of despair.

All through the past winter they had been incessantly together, the intimacy having begun by Mr Bruce asking Keith to paint his daughter's picture. Keith was a stranger in these parts ; it was not wonderful that his story was totally un known in the neighbourhood. He had not mentioned his marriage to Mr Bruce, intend ing to be open some day — and now — now — it was too late ! Now his silence had ter ribly complicated the difficulties of his posi tion. It was an awful calamity, an unendur able calamity, which had come upon him. He was a man of strong will, a man accustomed to fight with adverse circumstances, not to submit to them. He had all the acute sensi bilities of a born artist, suffering more than most men in the midst of jarring surroundings. How could he bear it, this terrible trouble — how could he even try to bear it?

He had no sweet memories to help him, no tender recollections of clinging caresses and loving words ; he had not even the remembrance of penitence and anguish and struggling endeav ours to do better. His only memory of his wife was of a coarse woman, whose some what sensual beauty had soon faded through constant self-indulgence — a harsh, jarring voice, a sodden brain often incapable of coherent thought. He had nothing to aid him to conquer himself and master his despair. Jean could not help him — the thought of her was mad dening. He remained in the little sitting-room till the gas became a sickly yellow in the pure, morning light, his head bowed on the table, his hands outstretched, clenching the letter which had shattered all his hopes of happiness. He was too stunned to act, almost too stunned to think.

He crept upstairs to his bedroom and half mechanically drew up his blind. The sky was luminous with the April dawn. Gil kicker tower stood out clear against clouds of pale grey, deepening into violet. Haslar creek lay with the tide down, sparkling all over with spots of light where the water still lingered, a mass of brown and green mud, like the back of a huge dragon with silvery scales. How happy, how supremely happy, Keith had been when he last saw that creek, with the tide up and the blue Solent waters spark ling in the sunlight ! Truly his life's tide had gone down, he thought bitterly, and there was nothing left but slime and mud.

Chapter I

I Later, on that April morning, Jean Bruce was leaning, back in an arm-chair with a e_> sweet, wistful smile on her lips. She was tired, but, oh, so happy ! Not too tired to feel happy, pleasantly conscious of a delicious dreamy weariness, during which her thoughts had leisure to travel back into Para dise. She lived it all over again, the en chantment of the night before. Again her pulses throbbed to joy and tenderness in the passionate rhythm of the exquisite music. She felt herself keeping time, held closely, tenderly, by the man she loved. Outside, through the open window, came the low twitterings and chirpings of the birds, with here and there a harsher note in the cry of the corn-craik. The clouds hung low, but they parted here and there into rifts of purest blue, and broad shafts of silvery light.

It was just a simple, English scene on which Jean's eyes rested — a flower garden now bright with wall-flowers, a meadow divided by a crooked paling, and dotted with clumps of golden gorse ; a row of great elms in their first bright livery of green. The elms separated the meadow from the road, which at this point formed a cross — the straight arm leading to the bay and the strip of Solent waters, which divide Hamp shire from the Isle of Wight. Even the road suggested happy thoughts to Jean, for by that road he would soon come to her — the man she loved, the king of her life. He had not yet asked her to be his wife, but this caused her no uneasiness ; she was sure, perfectly sure of him. She had had three delicious, perfect months ; months made up of tender looks and reverent hand-clasps and low, sweet words.

Keith had such a clever face, ardent, impassioned, so different from the finnikin, moustachioed young men of her acquaintance, with their simpering smiles and small talk, and expressionless faces all alike. She knew what it meant now — Heaven upon earth. ' I shall have had my day,' thought happy Jean. He had a sad face, this Keith Tran some ; it was the face of a man who had a history. He was not altogether happy, she was certain, but, whenever he saw her, his face brightened. It was delightful to re member how last night he had looked all round the ballroom till he caught sight of her, and instantly made his way to her, and kept by her side the whole evening. What a happy few minutes she had had just before she went away ! They were sitting in one of the corridors, which was dimly lighted with Japanese lanterns ; these shed a soft, subdued radiance, scarcely more than enough to make the darkness visible. ' Isn't it pleasant to be in the half-light together, you and I ? ' Keith had said.

Philip Glyn must have heard the words, for he spoke to her soon afterwards, and moved away sud denly. She had not known he was so near, clergymen had really no business to go to balls. Jean lay back with her hands folded idly in her lap. She began to grow a little rest less, and, stepping across the room, looked at herself wistfully in the oak-framed mirror over the mantelpiece. It was rather an uncommon face which re flected itself — black eyebrows, delicately traced ; great dark gray eyes, plentifully fringed ; a complexion of pale creamy tint, a straight nose, a proud, sensitive mouth. The head was well set on the shoulders, the curves of the slender throat were beautiful. Jean pushed aside some of the ornaments on the mantel-shelf that she might gaze her fill. ' I wish I were cleverer,' she sighed. ' And yet I have one gift, I am certain — the gift of appreciation.

I could understand him last night when he spoke of poetry and art.' The door opened ; Jean started, but it was only her father. ' Did you enjoy yourself last night ? ' he asked. ' Very much — oh, very much ! ' Was Philip Glyn there ? ' ' Yes, hovering about — not dancing. Heigh-ho, I'm glad I am not going to be a clergyman's wife ! Imagine the monotony — it would be intolerable ! Districts, mothers' meetings, classes, guilds, sewing circles. I wonder some of them don't die of their own dulness.' 'But if a girl cared she would not be dull.' ' I couldn't imagine being in love with Philip ; he doesn't seem like a young man at all. He is very old for his years — he isn't the least attractive Good, but dull ; that's how I should label him.' ' He certainly is not dull,' said Mr Bruce, warmly. ' He is very much above the average in intellect, and so modest with it all.

And, Jean, it does touch me to think of his devo tion to you. Ever since you were seventeen he has cared for you, and how old are you now ? ' 'Twenty next birthday,' said Jean, softly. Then her heart gave a great bound — Keith Transome was entering the room at that moment ; he must have come in the other way by the side gate. But, oh, how strange he seemed, how altered ! There was a grey, withered look on his face — something had aged him suddenly. The two were alone ; Mr Bruce had left the room. Instinctively Jean cried out, 'You are ill — something has happened — you have had bad news ? ' ' Yes,' he said gravely, ' I have had bad news. I have come this morning to tell you everything, to ask you to bear with me as you listen to my story.' She looked up at his face with questioning eyes, while a cold chill crept to her heart. ' Tell me,' she said softly, and he sat down beside her.

There was a letter in his hand. Jean was quite sure that the misery had come in that letter. For a moment there was silence. The birds went on singing — low, sweet chirpings, with the harsh cry at intervals. Oh, why would they not stop singing? She wanted to listen to nothing — nothing but his voice. But he would not speak ; and then she looked up for one instant, half terrified at the dark, set face, the stern mouth, the depths of unspoken anguish in his eyes. ' What is it ? ' she whispered. ' Whatever it is I can bear it.' ' Yes, you can bear it, but I cannot.' He turned away and covered his face, then raising it again, said, — ' There is one thing I must say first of all. I will say it,' he added defiantly ; ' neither God nor man shall prevent me. I was coming to-day to tell you I love you, to ask you to be my wife, to tell you that my heart is yours — absolutely, unreservedly — only yours.

Jean raised her head a little ; she could bear anything now — those words had made her strong. ' But now,' said Keith, resolutely, turning away from her, ' I must not say it, I must only tell you I would have said it. God help me ! ' he went on, stooping low. ' No, I will not say God help me, for God has been cruel to me — cruel. God has tortured me by letting me think I was free, when I am bound hand and foot by a hateful, a loathsome past. . . . someone is alive,' he added hoarsely, ' whom I thought was dead ; I ought to have told you. I meant to tell you afterwards. I married more than a year ago a woman whom I never loved. I married her under a mistaken sense of honour, after having been told that she loved me. But it was false — false. She does not know what love means. She is the slave of a degrading habit.

She drinks and is often quite incapable of thought or action. I thought she was dead — drowned in the Caledonia — I had reason to think so. I made full inquiries ; not a soul was saved. But — but — she never started in the Cale donia. Her luggage was on board, her name was registered among the passengers ; it was published in the list of the lost. My darling, in one thing at least I am not to blame. There was not the shadow of a doubt in my mind that I was free, when I met you, allowed myself to love you and to hope to win you.' ' I believe you,' whispered Jean. ' Do not be afraid ; I believe you.' Her cheeks and lips were ashen, she was trembling all over. ' This letter,' said Keith, ' is a message cf death — the death of joy. Oh, God, if I had never met you, or met you, knowing that I was bound ; but to believe myself free, to allow myself to live again — to hope again — not to love again, for I have never loved B anyone but you.

And now — now I must not tell you so, I must not even touch your hand.' Jean was making a supreme effort to com mand herself. This man, to whom she had given her whole heart, she must not think of him any more, she must not love him any more. He belonged to someone else. He had a wife ; it was wicked to think about him. But how could she kill her love all in an instant — how could she, unless she killed herself with it ? She turned away and moaned — a little low moan. 'Jean,' said Keith, eagerly, snatching at her hand, ' tell me one thing, only one. It this had not happened, would you have loved me ? Would you have belonged to me ? ' Jean was silent. ' Tell me,' said Keith, passionately. ' God knows, I am miserable enough. Give me one drop of comfort — and yet would it be comfort ? ' he added sorrowfully. ' No, no, do not say it, do not tell me your life is blighted as well as mine.' ' Go and see father,' said Jean ; 'he is in his study.

Tell him everything — trust him.' Keith still lingered, ' Please go,' she whispered, ' for my sake.' Jean heard his departing footsteps and the closing of the door. Then she gazed ab sently out on the spring landscape with hot, tearless eyes. 1 I am very wicked,' she whispered to her self; ' the only thing that comforts me is that he loves me — I mustn't let that comfort me. He must drive it out, that love of his, and I must drive mine out. I must throttle it, but it is so strong — so strong ! She heard voices in the study. Oh, she hoped her father would not be angry with Keith. The voices ceased, and steps came along the passage. Jean roused herself. She must not let her father see how much she was suffering. Mr Bruce came close to his daughter, he raised her, made her put her arms about his neck. ' Jean,' he whispered, ' Keith must go away — right away.

He must not come and see you any more.' Jean bent her head ; at that moment speech was impossible. 'Good-bye, Jean. God bless you,' Keith faltered, then his voice failed him utterly. There was a moment's silence, during which Keith gathered courage, for Mr Bruce's face had softened ; his arms were round his daughter, her head was hidden on his shoulder. ' May I kiss her, just once ?' he whispered. 'No,' he thundered; 'how dare you ask it? Thank God, I am here to protect my child.' But Jean raised her head. 'Father, might he? Just once — to say good-bye ? ' Mr Bruce unloosened his arms from Jean, and looked down at her with sorrowful amazement. She crept to him again and hid her burning face on his shoulder. 'You have done enough mischief,' said Mr Bruce, coldly, addressing Keith ; ' you had better go.' But Keith did not stir, for Jean signed to him to stay. ' Come nearer,' she said, and he came nearer. ' Keith,' she said softly, ' try to be good.

I am trying. I made a mis take just now. I wanted you to do what you asked father to let you do. I am not good like father, but I am trying. Do not be afraid for me,' she went on, ' I have my father. You have not hurt me so that I cannot get over it, indeed you have not, Keith ; ' and she looked up at him while her lips quivered with the ghost of a smile. Then she hid her face again, and kept it hidden till she was sure she was alone with her father.

Chapter III

On the other side of the harbour there is a dull terrace of grey stone buildings, each the counterpart of the other, all approached by six stone steps with stone lions rampant on either side. I twas to one of these houses that Juliet Transome was brought after the Jumna landed at Portsmouth. This was on a chilly May morning with an east wind blowing. Keith's mother shivered as she stood with her son awaiting the arrival of her daughter-in-law. Mrs Transome had a motherly countenance, full of tenderness and power. She bore a curious resemblance to her son, but her face wore the expression of self-mastery, while on his was written the will to have his own will at almost any price. Mrs Transome involuntarily shrank as her son's wife approached her — a tall, big woman with handsome features, bold, dark eyes, and a loud voice and manner. 'Welcome home, my dear,' she said softly.

Keith held out his hand ; he could not utter a word. ' We will go on first,' said Mrs Transome, rather nervously ; ' Keith will follow us with the luggage.' The two women got into a fly and drove away. It was not till they were in the dreary lodg ing-house drawing-room that Mrs Transome said with dignity, as well as tenderness, — ' Keith has told me all about you, dear. You must let me be a real mother to you, will you ? You and he belong to one another, you must make the best of your lives together. ' I'll not be bullied,' said Mrs Keith, tossing her head. ' I've a temper of my own as well as he. I'm not going to be down-trodden. I'm not one of your meek creatures who turns the other cheek. I wish I'd never married. I was independent before, and I have three hundred a year of my own, so I could have managed to get on.' ' Is not Keith kind to you ?

Do you not care for him even a very little ? ' said Mrs Transome, striving to repress the horrible disgust which almost overpowered her. ' Yes, he's kind enough when he chooses, but I want more independence. Talk about the independence of married women — I could do far more as I liked when I was Miss Hillyer!' Keith's mother gazed half fascinated and wholly horrified at the terrible specimen of womanhood before her. She had never met anyone like her — certainly not in her own rank of life. The nearest approach was a virago she had seen years ago in one of the worst parts of her husband's former London parish. Juliet was a lady-like edition of this virago. There was the same loud voice and masterful manner, the same bloodshot eyes and sensual mouth. How could Keith have married her ! How impossible, how absolutely impossible, to imagine any sort of attractiveness in the face and form before her.

But then, it must be remembered that Juliet had once been very handsome and attractive after her own fashion, clever at repartee and an amusing companion. She possessed a little Tlie Creed of Philip Glyn 25 independent fortune, and, therefore, the house in which she had lived in Calcutta had been a centre in the neighbourhood. Many young men, both officers and civilians, flocked to it, Keith among them. But, after all, his marriage remains a mystery — one of those events in a man's life which he finds impossible to explain even to himself. The sudden passion at a sus ceptible age, the subtle influence which an older woman exercises over a mere lad, the being drawn on almost imperceptibly till it is too late to retreat, except at the price of honour. These are not uncommon chapters in a young man's history.

They were the chapters in Keith Tran some's life which now made his story so sad. Mrs Transome stood gazing sorrowfully out of the window for a few minutes at the waste of common, with its patches of colour in groups of scarlet-coated soldiers, at the sea beyond, on which lay an arrow of light * from an invisible sun. ' I will go now and take off my hat and cloak,' said Juliet in a thick voice. ' The bedroom is close to this room, the only other door on this floor,' said Mrs Transome. Juliet was away more than ten minntes. When she returned there was a suspicious flush on her face and an odd brightness in her eyes. She sat down in an arm-chair with her back to the window and took up the Times with an attempt to read. She soon, how ever, fell into a heavy sleep, from which it seemed impossible to arouse her.

When Keith entered he saw in an instant she was under the influence of drink. He gazed at her for a moment without speaking, then he said in a low voice, like a groan : — ' This is my wife ! ' His mother glanced at him sadly. ' We must try to cure her, Keith,' she whispered. He shook his head. ' You will never cure her.' After a pause, he added desperately, 'Once I was only unhappy — now, I verily believe, I am growing wicked. Mother, must I live with her ? I could bear it better if I needn't be with her. I believe she herself would rather live apart from me. We are totally unsuited to one another.' ' She is not in a fit state to live alone with out any protection. You can't shirk your responsibilities, Keith. She belongs to you ; she bears your name ; you took her for better, for worse.' ' It's been all worse and no better,' cried Keith, bitterly, and then added, ' Mother, I will tell you, I can trust you, / love some-one else, some-one I met during the six months I thought I was free.

I love her. She is the one woman in the whole world to me. I have done nothing wicked,' he added fiercely. ' You needn't look at me like that. I am no villain. I only did what was natural. I was day after day in the society of the sweetest, loveliest girl I have ever seen. I knew of no barrier to prevent my loving her, and trying to win her. No wonder I was happy in Heaven, after having escaped, as I thought, from Hell. And now I've got to go back to Hell,' he went on gloomily^, 'and you expect me to like it' ' Not like it, Keith, only bear it with patience and courage.' ' I could do that before,' said Keith, steadily. ' It's the disappointment which has unmanned me. There are some things which are past endurance. This is one.' Juliet made a slight movement, her head hung heavily over the arm of the red velvet chair, she shuffled it to the other arm, and began muttering, ' Lord, how the ship rolls ! ' Mrs Transome put her hand on Keith's hand in silent sympathy. ' It was a horrible mistake, Keith, but it needn't wreck your life.' ' Need not I he said passionately, ' isn't it wrecked ?