Paul Nugent-Materialist

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— Materialist a MR GLADSTONE ON/PAUL NUGENT.' Dear Madam, — I have read with great interest and careful attention the work entitled ' Paul Nugent, Materialist,' which has been so kindly presented to me. I need hardly say that I sympathise with the purpose of the writers to uphold the commanding claims of positive belief in God, in the soul, in Christianity, and in the Church, and so expose the fallacies of the hybrid and unreal system set up by ' Robert Elsmere.' And it appears to me that the points of the argument, as between belief and negation, are in general very tersely, ably and justly stated ; while, being confined within narrow bounds, they do not injuriously load the movement of the narrative. If this opinion of mine serves to commend to others a work conceived with so much courage and wisdom, I shall be very glad.

I do not think I shall be able to improve upon it by a more elaborate review. — I remain, dear Madam, with every good wish, your very faithful ad obedient. ' There can be no question as to the tolerance and breadth of view displayed by the joint authors in treating the important subjects of their interesting work.' — Morning Post. 'A readable and interesting story, with a great deal of sound religious instruc tion in it, a wholesome, moral, and a happy end. . . . The chief merit of the book is a certain straightforward simplicity and matter-of-factness, in the light of which the characters stand out with distinctness.' — Guardian. ' It is a splendid book, written with quite refreshing enthusiasm. The characters are well drawn, the arguments are advanced with convincing authority, and we have no hesitation in saying that, whilst it will interest the general public by its love story, it will do more to strengthen half-hearted Christians than many a dry work on theology.' — Life. ' A pleasant, refined book, welcome in those days of morbid, and sometimes nasty, self-analysis.' — Vanity Fair. ' There is a brightness and skill about the texture of the plot, and an unflag ging attractiveness in the characters, which are sure to make the novel popular.' — Rock. ' " Paul Nugent" is a book well worth reading.'— Western Daily Press.

Materialist BY HELEN F. HETHERINGTON (GULLIFER) AND THE Rev. H. DARWIN BURTON LONDON GRIFFITH FARRAN OKEDEN & WELSH NEWBERY HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD AND SYDNEY mmccc: d. & co. : 10.91. Th; Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved. CONTENTS.

Chapter I

A LOVE MATCH. A SMALL golden ring, as is well known, can be a more unbearable fetter than a pair of iron hand cuffs ; and marriage under some aspects may be an infinitely worse fate than the famous mill at Mar seilles, in which the Emperor Maximian's satel lites used to grind obdurate Christians to powder. It was no comfort to Paul Nugent to know that he had brought this detestable fate upon himself. On the contrary, it exasperated him to be obliged to confess that he, in all the pride and strength of his manhood, had been as weak as any schoolboy fresh from the pleasant laxities of Eton. He met Perdita Verschoyle at Hurling ham, when they were both supposed to be looking on at a polo match between the ioth Lancers and the nth Hussars; but he was looking at her — and she, with blue eyes full of lazy interest, was looking at — some one else, and therein lay her charm.

Her careless bow when her fussy mother introduced him surprised and nettled him into sudden interest, for he was tired of the quick, A — MATERIALIST. admiring glances which his beauty always won for him before he had time to speak a word. He was as fond of being appreciated as any other man, but it seemed to him that the cast of his features mattered little, compared with the cast of his character or his intellect. He had no personal conceit, but he held his head high, and was proud to think there was a good deal in it. And yet Paul Nugent fell in love with silken lashes drooping over marvellous blue eyes, and coral lips which smiled as sweetly as possible, but never said anything worth hearing. Perhaps it was the consciousness that he would have to fight against a dozen rivals which led him on, for Miss Verschoyle had crowds of admirers, and he was never so happy as when engaged in an arduous struggle.

His love took possession of him like a summer madness, and, wild with the longing for possession, he lived for a few months in a fevered dream, like any poor lunatic in Bedlam, who sits on a bench in the sun, and dreams himself a Lord Chancellor on the woolsack. His passionate wooing bewildered her, and overpowered all her capacities for resistance. She was rather glad to think that her lover was considered clever by the rest of her small world ; but, unlike him in every respect, her chief source of pride in Paul Nugent was the faultless line of features, which made his the most noted face in the Row. She was incap able of the smallest appreciation of his higher qualities, and she considered herself on a perfect equality with one of the first scholars of the day, because of the trivial fact that the girls of her acquaintance looked after him, as the men with more audacity ran after her.

A LOVE MATCH. 3 And to such a woman as this Paul Nugent gave his whole heart. It was a pitiful satire on the rest of his life, for the intellect on which he prided himself more than on any other possession was dethroned from its seat of power, and, as it were, shunted igno minously into the background, whilst all the softer feelings, which he generally considered of so small account, were allowed full play. He would take no answer but ' yes,' and when that cheerful mono syllable was whispered on his shoulder, he felt prouder of his prize than Columbus when he discovered a new world. He was so sure of his happiness, that he was not afraid to take his bride straight home to The Thickets, a small property near by in Essex, which came to him through his mother. It was a pretty place, near the small town of Z., and he had flown to it eagerly, as the only spot on earth where he could be sure of an uninterrupted tete-a-tete with his lovely wife.

Could any folly be greater ? Perdita's highest ambition had been to have a prettier frock than any other girl of her acquaintance, and she had taken care to provide herself with a vast quantity of fascinating toilettes in her trousseau. But what is the good of the most entrancing gown that was ever conceived by the imagination of a first-rate milliner, if there is nobody to die of envy ? There was absolutely no society in Z. A few carts rattled up and down its one long street, but it was generally so intensely and funereally silent, that a dog's bark sounded like an impertinence. ' Will nobody come to call ? ' asked Perdita, as she stood at the breakfast-room window, forming I-AUL NUGENT— MATERIALIST. 4 a pretty picture, with her yellow hair and her pale blue gown, a pretty, wistful look in her forget me-not eyes, and an ugly weed of discontent growing up within her bosom. ' No, thank heaven, not a chance,' said Paul fervently, though he had no belief in the heaven he so casually invoked. ' In this snug little place of ours there isn't a soul to drop in except Mr Whittaker the parson, who would shudder himself into a blue ague if he had to enter the house, or the doctor, who knows I am too confoundedly healthy to be any good to his pocket.' ' But are there no girls — no ladies of any sort, however old ? ' she asked in dismay, as she thought of all her finery wasted in this desert. ' None,' with a cheerful smile, ' unless you call Dr Goodwin's sister a lady.

She's a fearful female, with shiny black love-locks plastered across her forehead.' Perdita shrugged her shoulders. ' There will be no good in changing my dress. I shall keep this one on,' her heart sinking in cold despair. She leant her head against the frame work of the window, as she thought of those gay little teas at Hurlingham, when the men crowded round her like the bees round their queen, and the women were nearly mad with jealousy at the beauty of her frocks ; or that other day at Henley, when she floated down the river, with some one whom she rather liked, talking non sense to her in the moonlight, and little Jack Mosely singing, ' Be queen of my heart to-night,' as he shot past her in his canoe. She could hear the boyish tenor dying away in the distance; she could see the lights of the A LOVE MATCH. 5 numberless house-boats flashing across the waters.

She was in the full enjoyment of the life — the fun, the undercurrent of excitement, and she woke with a start to find herself alone with Paul Nugent, in the dullest house in the world ! 'What shall we do to-day?' he was asking, in a cheerful, matter-of-fact way, as if he had a host of things to propose. ' There is nothing to do,' not caring to raise her eyes to his, but stretching out her hand to pick a rosebud, and then chewing the stalk to pieces with her small white teeth. ' My dear child, how can you say so ? I could drive you over Horsley Common, and round by Fell day Woods ; or else we could take the lower road, cross the river by Bolton Bridge, and catch the finest view of the castle, with the hills as a background.' The programme seemed a splendid one to him, especially with that golden head close to his side, as a very charming adjunct to the beautiful scenery.

But there was no rapture in Perdita's face as she drew her brows together, and threw away the rose that she had so wantonly spoiled. ' I wish you would understand, once for all,' she began petulantly, ' that one or two fellow-creatures would be a thousand times more interesting to me than all the castles in the world.' A shade crossed Paul's face, but he laid his hand upon her shoulder with an indulgent smile. ' You prefer common clay to the stones of by gone centuries ? Well, shall we stroll down to the village ? I might carry a basket, and you should play Lady Bountiful. ' Thanks ; where would be the fun ? By fellow creatures I mean the people who wear good PAUL NUGENT — MATERIALIST. coats on their backs, or pretty gowns, who can talk of the things that interest me, and laugh, and have fun.

I've nothing in common with paupers,' she added, with a toss of her head, and a spiteful flash from her lovely eyes. ' The people here are not paupers,' he said indignantly. 'They are honest, hard-working creatures. They would slave themselves to death rather than go into the workhouse, and be supported for nothing.' ' I daresay,' with a cold smile. ' Rob a poor man of his beer, and is there anything left him to live for ? ' ' They are not a set of barrels,' he answered gravely. 'They have no minds, perhaps, but they've hearts, like you and me, Per,' his voice softening. ' And do you think, if we were forced to live apart, our first thought would be if they would put a stopper on our liquor ? ' ' No, of course not ; but we are different,' drawing herself up, as if she were a superior being. ' Have you no friends, Paul ? ' ' Yes, plenty, only I don't want them just yet,' his face flushing ; ' and they live at a distance.' ' They don't seem in a hurry to find you out.' ' They haven't an idea that we are here.' ' It's all your fault, because you don't go to church,' she said, as if she had made a discovery. ' I know down at home we never used to know if the Castle people were back, until we saw them in their pew.

I shall go to-morrow.' ' Don't,' drawing her to his side. ' I shall have such a dull morning. You never used to go in London.' 'Yes, I did — sometimes. Here I shall go regularly ; it will be something to do.' A LOVE MATCH. 7 The words jarred upon Paul, unbeliever as he was. ' Sit here, and talk to me ; there will be no hypocrisy about that,' he said, as he kissed her soft white forehead. She drew herself away brusquely, and looked up into his face with an offended air. It was the first home-truth he had ever spoken to her, and she did not approve of it at all. ' Hypocrisy, Paul ! ' she exclaimed, drawing down the corners of her mouth. 'Yes, I mean it,' softening the words with a smile, but too innately honest to be able to with draw them. 'You are supposed to go to church for some religious sort of service, I believe, and if you go from any other motive, there is a certain amount of hypocrisy, isn't there ? ' ' You know nothing about it at all,' she said, with supreme contempt, glad to find some subject on which she could assert her superiority to her husband. ' You are nothing but an atheist,' and she flounced out of the room, quite forgetful of the fact that she generally took care to make a graceful exit.

Paul shrugged his shoulders and went off to the library, where he promptly found consolation for his temporary sense of disappointment and aliena tion in his beloved books. The old charm fell upon him as soon as he found himself in his wonted chair ; but when the luncheon gong roused him to the duties of everyday life, he remembered with a pang of surprise that he had quite forgotten his wife's existence for at least two hours. As he walked to the door with a slow, reluctant step, he might have guessed that the scales were already fall ing from his eyes, and that his love-dream was over.

Chapter II. Disappointment

Mrs Paul Nugent was rightly called Perdita, for she gravitated downwards like the lost souls in Dante's Inferno. When her husband discovered that she could sympathise in nothing that interested him most, he took to shutting himself up in the library for gradually increasing intervals. As soon as the period had gone by for a conversation con sisting chiefly of terms of endearment, he began to find that he and his wife had not one thought in common. If he had been awake to the duties of his position as a married man, he would have taken care to provide some sort of entertainment for her, as soon as he found that his own society was not all sufficiency ; but, manlike, he engrossed himself in his own pursuits, and then wondered why she had so little to say to him when they met at meals. Poor Perdita had nothing to do, and nothing to think of but a past which was gone out of reach, like a child's shoe washed away by the tide.

The county families were very slow in call ing, and Perdita, accustomed to the sauce piquante of fashionable life, thought them 'deadly slow' in every other way. Still she brightened up a little when Paul, with the air of a martyr, drove her about the country in his high mail-phaeton to return their visits. If there were a few men in the room, the conversation was kept up briskly, DISAPPOINTMENT. 9 and Perdita was the life and soul of the party ; but if not, it dwindled into a series of exhaustive platitudes, till Paul would get up in despair and say they could not keep the horses waiting any longer. ' Per, my dear girl, why can't you talk to the women?' he said one day, as they were driv ing home in the gathering dusk, and he was feeling especially mortified because he knew that his wife had made a bad impression on Lady Morgan, who was considered the oracle of the county. ' It's not my metier? she said affectedly, as she drew her sable boa closer round her soft white throat. ' Men have always understood me — women never.' Paul frowned.

There was something in the little speech which irritated and offended him exceedingly. He had never objected to Miss Verschoyle's turning the cold shoulder on any amount of women, and devoting her whole attention to Paul Nugent : but he wished to be the only man with whom she could get on so very easily, and he knew that the women of the neighbourhood would soon pass sentence on her, and refuse to admit this pretty, coquettish little bride into the inner sanctum of their intimacy. ' You open like an oyster as soon as a man comes near you,' he said testily, ' and you never give the women a chance. Do you know that sort of thing is not considered good form down here ? ' 'As if I cared what a parcel of old women thought of me,' she answered rather shrilly, as the hues of the sunset gathered in her cheeks. ' They are horrid, stiff, sour old cats, and I don't want to see any of them again.' — MATERIALIST. 'But you will feel rather dull without any of them,' he said gravely, for it had been borne in upon him by that crucial test — personal experi ence — that dulness was possible even with the prettiest wife in England for your companion ; and, having gone so far on his own account, he was kind enough to think that she might have made a step in the same direction. ' Captain Mayhew said he would ride over to see what is the matter with the little pug,' she answered, with a smile of conscious pride, 'and that long-legged Mr Ashton said he would be charmed to mark out our tennis-lawn.

He is going to lunch with us to-morrow.' Paul gave the chestnuts a savage cut with the whip, which sent them down the road at a mad pace. They nearly dislocated his wrists, but he managed to get them under control. At the same time he was trying to regain a thorough mastery over himself. When he was sure that he could speak without passion — and the horses had subsided into a moderate trot — he turned to his wife, with an expression in his eyes that she had never seen there before. ' What is the matter with Bogie ? ' he asked quietly. ' Oh, nothing, nothing,' she stammered in con fusion, ' only I didn't think the darling was quite the thing.' ' You never said a word about it to me ? ' ' No, of course not ; the dog might have died and you would never have noticed it,' recovering her composure as well as her combative instinct. 'As if I weren't desperately interested in any thing that concerned you !

I will have a look at DISAPPOINTMENT. 11 the little brute to-night, and if he isn't well we'll send for the vet to-morrow.' ' Captain Mayhew says he is as good as a vet, and we shouldn't have to pay him anything,' she said, very quietly. ' I never knew you think of expense before,' not at all pleased by this peculiar style of economy. ' I am profiting by your lessons,' pursing upher lips. ' You talk as if I were a screw.' ' You talked as if we were paupers,' with an indignant flash from her eyes. ' Just because I wouldn't go to Monte Carlo?' ' Yes — and that was horrid of you. Don't you know that I'm moped to death ; and you grudge me the only two people who will take the trouble to come over?' trembling with excitement, and almost frightened at her own words. 'So you ask a fool and a puppy to console you ? ' his upper lip curling scornfully. ' They are better than nothing,' sullenly. ' Do you call me " nothing ?

" ' very quietly. ' No, but you can't talk of anything but books and politics, and I hate them both.' ' Good gracious, child, do you know what you are saying ? If I bore you already, after only two months of it, what is to become of us both ? ' he asked tragically. She gave her shoulders an insolent shrug. ' You will have your books, and your shooting, hunting, everything you want, and I — ' 'Yes — you?' he interposed eagerly, as she paused. ' Do you think I'm such a selfish brute that I could be happy if you weren't ? ' ' I'm sure you could,' she said coldly, ' so I shall look out for myself.' MATERIALIST. ' Perdita ! ' Not another word passed between them as they turned in at the gate of The Thickets, and the chestnuts brought them up to the front door in splendid style. Paul handed out his wife, but as she turned into the drawing-room with an exclamation of delight at the fire which had been lighted by her husband's orders, he went into the library, and closed the heavy door behind him, with something like a groan. ' Was it his fault ? ' he asked himself, over and over again, as he paced up and down the darken ing room ; and, subjecting his conduct to a searching analysis, he came to the conclusion that it was.

He had never given her much choice as to whether she would have him or no. He had wanted her so madly that he had constrained her to come to him by the power of his will, and — good heavens ! — was it true that he 'wanted' her no longer? The room seemed to stifle him, and, walking to the window, he threw it open and raised his face to ihe chill east wind and the darkened sky. He watched the branches of the larches tossing up and down with every gust, and frowned with pain as he remembered that, just in the same way, only a short time ago, he had been tossed here and there on the wild winds of a passion, a mere shuttlecock in the hands of his feelings. It was a despicable thing for a man who prided himself on the power of his intellect and his strength of will to find that he had no more real power of resist ance to his passions than the merest sensualist.

He had loved Perdita Verschoyle for the sake of her beauty. Her cheeks were just as softly-rounded, her eyes were just as deeply, darkly blue, but her DISAPPOINTMENT. 13 loveliness had already lost the power to satisfy him. He had taken her into his heart without first finding out if she were suited to the position, and it was like placing a statue of Venus in a cathedral. Every day, with a cruel clear-sighted ness, he found out points of dissimilarity between them. Mentally weighing her small personality in the balance, ' Found wanting ' was the constant sentence, and the discovery only afforded him a fresh sense of defeat every time. It seemed to him that he had studied every thing in nature except ' Woman,' and yet it was a more important subject than any other, for a woman could make or mar his life, whilst any of the neglected ologies would only have left one blank space in his mind.

But idle regrets were of no possible use. She was his property, to be looked after and taken care of in a higher degree than corn-fields, or pasture lands, or the inmates of his stables and kennels. He could not get rid of her except by some violent disruption ; he must keep her by his side, to see that no temptation reached her. He had promised before men to cherish her, and he would never break that promise, though no extra binding force had been lent to it by re ligion. Under these circumstances, he knew that he must do the best he could, and make her life as bearable to her as possible. ' But what will be the end of it ? ' he asked, with a groan, as the level stretch of constant, futile endeavour seemed to unfold itself before his despairing eyes, and the sunshine which might have gilded it was hidden behind the gloomy clouds of dis appointment. — MATERIALIST.

Disappointment is an unpleasant word in itself, when associated with a child's tear-stained cheeks, and a party deferred to another day, or lost through a shower of rain ; but it becomes almost unbearable in its wretchedness when it applies to a life-time, and its consequences spread from youth to old age. The dressing-bell roused Paul from his abstrac tion, and, cold at heart as well as chilled to the bone, he shut the window, and groped his way through the unlighted room to the door. It was a shock to him to find Perdita just the same as usual, as if she were not aware of the rocks on which they both were stranded. She looked particularly well in a pale blue tea-gown, and she was standing before a tall mirror, draped with Algerian curtains, when Paul came into the drawing-room, looking as solemn as a hired mute. ' Why, Paul, you look as if you were attending your own funeral ! ' she cried out, as soon as she saw him. ' Come here and admire me.

There's nobody else, or I would save you the trouble.' He looked down at her with grave eyes, and then, with a sudden pang of pity, drew her to him, and kissed her on the full, red lips. 'Don't,' she said pettishly. 'You'll ruin my dress before any one else has seen it.' His face hardened. ' Come, or the soup will be cold,' he said shortly, as he held out his arm. 'You might at least have said that you liked my dress,' and she pouted like an offended child. ' As if you cared a straw whether I did or no,' the colour rushing to his cheeks, DISAPPOINTMENT. 15 ' Why shouldn't I ? ' raising her pencilled eye brows ; ' you are a man.' ' Yes, but only a husband,' with withering scorn ; and then they went into dinner. The bitterness of his mood passed off, and was succeeded by an interval of comparative indifference.

He became engrossed in shooting his partridges, and as he invited some of the best ' guns ' in the neighbourhood to join him, and as they often stayed to dinner, Perdita was happier. He disliked her evident appreciation of their ad miration, but he told himself that he was a jealous fool, and that flattery was the breath of life to a woman. Her flirtations became the talk of the neighbourhood, but, of course, he was the last man to hear of them; and, to do Perdita justice, she was only bent on amusing herself. She saw no reason why she should not have a man lounging in her boudoir, and telling her all the empty chit-chat of the neighbourhood, whilst Paul was forgetting a November fog, and all the unpleasantnesses of life, as well as his pretty wife, over a musty volume in the library. This sort of thing could not go on for long without coming to some sort of crisis.

Sir Samuel Morgan took it upon himself to warn Mr Nugent that young Ashton was always hanging about his house. Paul thanked the old squire very coldly, but the next time Mr Ashton presented himself, ' Not at home ' was said to him by the butler, who seemed in a hurry to shut the door, and a few days later he heard that the Nugents had gone abroad for three weeks.

Chapter III Disillusion

' Now look here, Per,' said Paul, leaning his back against the mantel-shelf in the drawing-room one _-* • cold, bleak, January day, when the fireside was the only place for comfort, 'you've only got to say what you want. I'll give up hunting,' with an inward groan, ' if you want me to take you for a walk or a drive, only don't turn down the corners of your mouth and look like an in voluntary martyr.' ' I am a martyr, and you know it,' looking into the fire with angry eyes, as she leant her chin on her hand, and her elbows on her knees. ' I hate the country, and it is brutal of you to make me live here.' ' You know very well that I can't help it,' he said quietly, as a weary look crept over his young, good looking face. ' If we shut up this place, and took a decent house in London, I should like to know who would pay the damage.

I know I couldn't.' 'You could sell it, and then we could take a house in Mayfair on the proceeds.' She stooped to pick up Bogie, an obese, surly little pug, and buried her face on its broad back, for she scarcely dared to glance at her husband. DISILLUSION. 17 ' Sell The Thickets ! ' he exclaimed in amaze ment, feeling as if the proposition were nothing short of an outrage. ' Do you know that my people have lived here for five centuries ? ' ' Then I'm sure it's time for you to give it up. Change is the order of the day, and you would be quite a different man if you lived in London.' ' I should prefer penal servitude,' and, though it was folly, he looked as if he meant it. ' Then you are only fit for Bedlam,' she decided, in a tone of equal conviction. He took no notice of the remark, but leant his elbow on the mantel-shelf and frowned at the fire.