A Pagan Soul

Front matter

I ■ ■ I I I ■ I I ■ I NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. FRIEND OR RIVAL. By Elizabeth Neal, Author of ' Coming of Age,' ' My Brother Basil,' &c. 2 vols. THE SPORT OF STARS. By Algernon Gissing, Author of 'A Moorland Idyl,' l A Village Hampden,' &c. 2 vols. AN UNSOUGHT HERITAGE. By C. G. Furley Smith, Author of ' Quixote the Weaver.* 2 vols. TOO FAIR A DAWN. By M. Bbamston, Author of ' Apples of Sodom,' &c. 2 vols. EGERIA. By Lilt Thicknesse. One volume. 6s. LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED. BY LOUIS VINTRAS AUTHOR OF ' LADY FOLLY.' Whither stray Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked Bide ? Let bo : Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. /iV ONE VOLUME. LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED , 3> GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1S96. All rights reserved.

Part I. Man, The Hero

They do but grope in learning's pedant round Who on the phantasies of sense bestow An idol substance, bidding us bow low Before those shades of being which are found Stirring or still, on man's brief trial ground ; As if such shades and modes, which come and go, Had aught of Truth or Life in their poor show, To sway or judge, and skill to stain or wound. Cardinal Newman. B j. ■• AFTER all, what is life, Mrs. Congreave, but a continual struggle to keep our bodies clean and make our souls dirty?' ' Oh, Phyllis, Phyllis, there are many beautiful souls !' ' Quite so ; but that is merely because hu manity cannot always command success.' ' What a dreadful little cynic you are !' ' Poverty is not a beautifying agent.' ' But you are very lovely yourself.' 'Yes, my parents were rich when I was born.' Mrs. Congreave laughed good-humouredly, b2 ■1 A PAGAN SOUL. shaking her head in a deprecating way at the pretty girl who was coiled up in the deep basket-chair in front of her.

They formed a strange contrast as they sat idling away the beautiful summer evening on the large stone terrace of Oriol Abbey, waiting for Ethel Queensley, who was to arrive that evening from France. The one was a tall, graceful woman, with a fine oval face, where beauty and goodness fought for the mastery — a heaven, with two large, glowing eyes for stars, and, crowding over the proud white brow, the mas sive hair which made for her a crown of burning gold. The other a girl, who appeared hardly free from her teens, with the loveliest face im aginable, where chin and mouth and nose and impertinent dimples seemed like roguish school girls, ever ready for a frolic, yet ever kept in awe by the cold, steel-grey eyes, full of seriousness and thought, through which she looked out into the world, not merely on the world.

Phyllis was also fair, her hair was delightfully rebel lious, and its colour was almost like silver, when seen by the side of Dora Congreave's. The latter was dressed in a simple black gown, severe in its cut, yet graceful in the extreme; she had no ornaments, not even a ring, and in truth nothing could have added to the perfection of the picture. There was a little more study of effect in her companion's costume; the plain jacket and skirt of dark brown cloth, the stocking that just peeped out below the dress, and the shoes to match, were all irreproachably sober in tone, but the pale blue silk shirt under the loose, open jacket was distinctly — attractive. ' You will be in love some day, child, and then you will see the world with kinder eyes,' pursued Mrs. Congreave, patting a big St. Bernard that lay at her feet. ' Poor people do not love.' ' What do they do, then V ' They multiply.' ' And the idle ones like you, Phyllis V asked Dora, smiling. ' Oh, they become rich by marrying money.' ' So you think there is no hope of happiness in life, except for the wealthy V ' There is plenty of hope, and most people have to treasure that for want of something better.

But in Europe a poor girl has two other chances : plain and laborious, she may make a living as a governess, a clerk, or a nurse ; pretty, well . . . she must remember she is a daughter of Eve.' ' That is in Europe, you say ; and in your own country?' 'In dear old Utah, things are much more pleasant for women ; we are not so selfish as you, and we make one man go a long way.' ' Surely, child, you would not really advocate polygamy V ' It is only the new woman who troubles to advocate anything.' ' Women in these countries are too proud to share.' ' Yes, they prefer to be fooled.' ' A true man can only love one woman.' ' Quite so ; he loves one and . . . marries the other. Your men are nothing better than poach ers in love matters ; most of them never even take out a license, and those who go to that expense think themselves fully equipped to enjoy unlimited sport.' Dora was amused as she looked at the pretty daughter of Salt Lake City, thrown by chance in the midst of the old world, and expounding theories, natural enough to her, but which, even with the pervading influence of the Zeit-geist, appeared as much out of place in our every-day life as a hansom-cab would have been in Nine veh, three thousand years ago. ' But, in England, most men now-a-days can hardly afford to keep one wife ; is everybody rich in Utah*, asked Mrs. Congreave. ' Oh, dear no ! only they have more wives and less children.' ' Women who live under such conditions are but slaves in disguise.' ' Our married women, on the contrary, enjoy much more freedom than yours ; they take the supervision of household duties in turns, and are thus at liberty to give the remainder of their time to social gatherings or intellectual pas times.

Most of our women are highly cul tured.' ' I pity the poor children with such a galaxy of mothers.' ' My father had four wives, [my mother was number three, I was the only child, and I could not say which of my mothers spoilt me most.', ' It sounds very strange, but life is only made up of customs. We are poor creatures after all and there is but little originality in the human race ; we admit this and refuse that because our parents did so and their parents did so before them. It takes as much revolutionizing to change a habit as to change a dynasty, and when we have made some great effort towards liberty, be it political or mental, we are not quite sure whether we have not forged some new and awful sin. There, there, I must not philosophize, it is bad form in these flippant times. Ethel will not be here for another half hour ; come, child, read me some more of that book you began this morning, though I fear it is not a good book.' ' Do not say that, Mrs. Congreave, it is a fine book.' ' Fineness does not always mean goodness.' ' But is it not a fashion now-a-days to call •everything bad ?

We are superficial, and take appearances for intentions; we read, we do not think, and we often make the mistake of cast ing the fruit away because the skin is bitter.' ' I think, Phyllis, that all true art should be perfectly pure.' ' There are few people who understand true art. The general public would think it dull, ignore it and go on this way ; but dress it with a little artificiality, wicked artificiality even, they will smile, and stop, and look, a few at least will understand, find the hidden beauty, made all the more glaring by the tawdry setting, and a great victory will have been won, one more soul will be nearer to the ideal which is loveli ness divine.' ' These are artifices, child, and I pity those whose souls must be won by such poor trickery.' ' Yours is a beautiful mind, Mrs. Congreave,' said the girl, taking Dora's hand and kissing it ; * you must be very happy.' ' I know nothing about my mind,' answered the lovely woman, while a faint tinge of redness ■coloured her cheeks, ' but I know that I am very happy, yes, very happy ; now please read to me, and in future pay me no compliments.' It was now two years since Phyllis Manvers had taken up her abode at Oriol Abbey as com panion to the lovely Mrs. Congreave.

They had been thrown together in the most commonplace way_an advertisement. Dora's late compan ion had married on her fiftieth birthday after having lived seventeen years of sedate life at Oriol, and reviled against marriage at least twice daily during that time ; but a jolly butcher of the neighbouring town had caused her to lose her head and the theories it contained. Mrs. Congreave did not like solitude. At the time her son had just gone to Cambridge, and of course she saw little of him, so she at once sought to replace the lady who had forgotten her part of the Nurse and tried her hand at playing Juliet in the autumn of life. In answer to her advertisement in the Times, she received a letter from Miss Phyllis Manvers, aged twenty ; she laughed, and put it aside, intending when suited simply to inform this forward young chaperone of the fact ; but Miss Manvers was born in America, and she knew that in life there is nothing like a personal interview to impress people with the advantage of em ploying you.

So the next day she made her appearance at the Abbey, just that there should be no misunderstanding, and so that the honourable lady should not think she had tried to make herself younger than she really was, as she herself explained to the astonished Dora. 4 But, my dear young lady, it is just the con trary,' Mrs. Congreave had explained, smiling, but feeling somewhat awkward at the girl's as surance. ' I want some one over fifty, and at that age even I find the human heart has not not always that stability which we might reasonably expect.' ' Over fifty. How dreadful ! Are you sure ?' ' Quite ;' and Mrs. Congreave was about to rise and end this personal interview. ' You are mistaken I assure you, madam,' said the young girl, demurely, 'and your mistake arises from the inborn faith all English people have in mathematics.' ' Mathematics ?

I know nothing about them, I assure you, and I hate figures.' ' Hatred is often only an excess of respect, yet the fact remains that English people treat their sentiments on a scientific basis, not on an artis tic one. Now you, Mrs. Congreave, count the number of your years, and necessarily arrive at the conclusion that a suitable companion must be a quiet, serious person with a number of years in excess of your own. Had you taken an artistic view of the situation, you would simply have looked at your mirror and seen there the picture of a young and beautiful woman ; the young yearn for the young, young life for smiles and sunshine, and you would have realized at once that the only fit companion for the youth and beauty on which you gazed was a merry, happy, pretty girl somewhat younger that yourself.' 'And you think you fulfil those conditions?' asked Dora, who began to be interested in her strange little visitor, and who was not altogether insensible to the pretty speech. ' I am told I am pretty, I know I can be merry, it remains with you to make me happy.' Mrs. Congreave saw two large grey eyes calmly fixed on her, eyes in which self-confidence had not destroyed tenderness. ' I will think it over,' she answered.

That was quite enough for Miss Manvers, she took the train back to London with the same inward satisfaction Wellington must have felt as he rode from the field of Waterloo. A fort night later she entered upon her new duties. It was but time ; of the sixty pounds left her by her mother, barely ten remained. Darkness had succeeded the halcyon days of childhood spent in Utah. And for the last ten years Phyllis and her mother had known much of the sadness of life. She was only nine when her father died, leaving his family almost penniless, having been ruined in an unlucky speculation at the dig gings. Of his four wives two remained, the eldest emigrated to Australia, while Mrs. Man vers number three, preferred to devote herself entirely to her child. She was a good musician, and possessed a voice above the average, so she went to New York, and there for some years gained a precarious livelihood by giving lessons in music.

She managed, however, to give her daughter a fair education, a task which was rendered the more easy as the young girl exhibited a natural vivacity of intellect far above her years. After staying a little over six years in New York, Mrs. Manvers, through the kind offices of some English friends, obtained a post of teacher at one of the large London schools of music, and came to England. Here, matters improved somewhat, and Phyllis was enabled to finish her education in comparative comfort. Unfor tunately, about three years later her mother's health began to fail. For eighteen months she dragged on bravely; but one winter evening, on leaving a concert, she caught a chill, — three weeks later she was dead. Phyllis was alone in the world, with only just enough money to face the immediate future ; she applied all her wits to discover some scheme of earning money, and doing nothing or at least very little for it.

For Miss Phyllis was too intellectual to be a hard worker, drudgery would have made life intolerable to her — leisure is the distinction of the gods. It is not an easy pro blem, however, in the nineties of the nineteenth century. This she found, and with her it was all the more difficult because she was not quite sure what particular form she wished her 'leisure ' to assume, but she believed strongly ... in pro verbs — ay, was she not right ? are not proverbs the wisdom of the people ? — and in this case she pinned her faith to the proverb, that aU things come to those who know how to wait. She waited heroically, and something did come. We know what. Nothing could have suited her better for the time being than the position she occupied at Oriol Abbey ; she had come to be a lady-com panion, in three months she had risen to the high estate of a pet ; she had been something new in Dora Congreave's life, another child, a daughter to guard over and spoil, and Phyllis allowed herself to be spoilt with infinite grace, but also with great tact. ' Phyllis, the evening air is freshening, you will be cold ; you had better ring for a shawl.' Miss Manvers interrupted her reading, and rang ; she told the servant to bring her a fichu ; a few minutes later the latter returned with the article in question, and handed it to her.

She immediately rose, laid her book on one side, crossed over, and arranged the fichu on Mrs. Congreave's shoulders. ' But, child, it was for you ' I should not have rang for myself, but you said that the evening air was fresh, therefore I knew that you felt it ;' and she quietly returned to her book. Sadness had hung heavy on the life of Dora. When only seventeen, she had married the Honourable Archibald Congreave, a younger son of the Earl of D , who died some ten months later. Of this union a son was born a few weeks after the father's death. It was said that it had not been a love-match; however that may be, the young widow always led a very retired life at the Abbey, rarely visiting the metropolis, where her rank, and fortune, and beauty would easily have enabled her t _ take a prominent place, receiving little, devot ing herself entirely to her son and to charitable works.

Whatever people might have thought at the time concerning her want of love for her husband, the fact remained that twenty years after his death she still wore black, possibly in token of the reverence she bore to his memory. Yet Dora's life had its romance, a secret ro mance hidden away in the depths of her heart, safe from the gaze of the world, unreached by the gleam of a star. About two years after Archi bald Congreave's death, a young gentleman, Stephen Melrose, hired for the season a shooting-box which was still part of the Oriol estate ; he was wealthy, and belonged to a very good family,— we use ' good ' in the heraldic sense as applied to families, the male members of which style themselves gentlemen, because they copy their forefathers in doing nothing for their living. A rumour soon spread through the coun try that the pretty widow had lost her heart to her young tenant, and that he too was desper ately in love.

There was much truth in all C this: Stephen Melrose was in love, Stephen Melrose led his lady-love to the altar of a fash ionable London church early in the ensuing winter, only the bride was not Dora Congreave, but Claire Dunn, the pretty cousin of the late Mr. Congreave, who had been staying with her at Oriol during all that summer. There were many who affirmed that the sorrow that had settled on the days of Archibald's widow dated from this marriage. These were events now long forgotten. Oriol Abbey was a fine specimen of early English architecture, and dated from the latter part of the reign of Edward III., when it had been founded by a branch of the Gilbertines. Only the main building now remained, but that was nearly perfect. Archibald Congreave in herited it from his uncle, and had spent on it a large sum of money.

This delicate scion of a noble race, destined to perish in the springtide of life, had expended all the mystic poetry, that is sometimes the unconscious inheritance of race, in creating here a perfect monument of mediæval art. Monastic simplicity and byzantine splendour were equally appealed to, and the effect produced in passing from one to the other was striking and delightful. Such as he left it, such Dora had wished it to remain. The Abbey was situated near the little town of S , once famous in coaching days, in the midst of Warwickshire's broad, rich, and some what monotonous landscape. 'Why do authors mostly write about bad women V asked the honourable lady, interrupt ing the reader. 'Because good women are like sermons, excellent things in their way, but dreadfully uninteresting.' 'A good woman is a great subject for meditation.' ' So are the Egyptian antiquities in the British Museum, yet few people go to see them.' 'Artistically speaking, I think the angel superior to the demon.' 'That depends.

Now, for instance, Mr. Irving is superb as Mephistopheles. I can hardly fancy him as a cherub.' ' Women were made to be good.' C2 ' The sun was made to shine, but it does not always do so, — in England at least.' 'Do you believe in anything, Phyllis?' ' What is the use of belief V ' Belief is the rock on which life is built.' ' Then it is strange there are not nowadays more people who die young.' 'But to us women faith at least is the su preme consolation.' ' Oh ! I thought it was love.' ' Love makes the wound which faith must heal.' ' Have you been much wounded, Mrs. Con greave, that your faith is so great V asked the girl, with a twinkle of malice in her eyes, again curling herself up wistfully in her chair. ' I lost my husband very young.' 'And since?' ' I have remained his widow.' ' Yes, I know ; but have you never met during all these years one man whom you felt you could love V ' One man,' echoed Dora, moving uneasily in her chair. ' I — I do not know.

I do not think > so. ' One man ? Just try to remember. Do tell me !' pleaded the petulant girl. ' The fire in my heart is dead.' ' Or smouldering ?' ' Really, Phyllis, you are worse this evening than ever. Why this mood ?' 'I want to find a human flaw in your soul.' 'And you go on the principle of clierchez V homme V ' Yes.' ' Well, I am sorry I cannot help you.' 'Mr. Spencer Carlton?' insisted Phyllis, with a sly look, in which there was something of anxiety. ' Oh ! Spencer is only a boy, and I am too fond of him to do him the injustice of marrying him at my age.' The young girl's face brightened ; it was clouded again immediately, however, as the lady added, ' Then, you know, I intend him to many Ethel.' There was a silence that ended in a sigh. 'My poor Phyllis, whatever is the matter?' asked Mrs. Congreave, laughing. ' Did I sigh ?' ' Yes, immensely.' ' I was thinking I should soon have to leave you and the dear old Abbey,' answered Miss Manvers, readily. 'Why, indeed?' ' Because, when Miss Ethel is here, you will want me no longer.' ' I shall want you as long as you care to stay, Phyllis.' ' Oh, thank you, Mrs. Congreave !' and the girl rose and kissed the beautiful lady of Oriol. ' Ethel will soon be married ; at least, such is my wish,' (an expression in which there was something unusual and harsh passed over Dora's face), ' and you must not leave me alone.

I am very fond of you, and you know it, though I am afraid you are not always a good girl.' ' It is no use being too good when we are young ; it leaves nothing for us to do when we get old.' Mrs. Congreave smiled, and consulted her watch. ' The train is late, and poor Percy will have had a long wait at the station.' She had hardly finished speaking when Jack, the big St. Bernard, gave a pleasant bark, and, wagging his tail, leaped down the steps into the carriage-drive. In a few minutes a phaeton, drawn by two fine bays, came dashing round the corner of the house and stopped just in front of where the two women were seated. A tall young man, who had been driving, jumped down and held out his hand to the strange, pretty girl who had been seated by his side ; the one was Percy Congreave, the other Ethel Queensley.

Dora was maternally effusive. ' Are you tired, my darling ?' ' Not at all ; you know I slept in Paris last night.' 'But the sea?' ' Oh, the sea was kind.' 'You know Phyllis?' Miss Manvers had accompanied Mrs. Congreave to France, when she went over for her sister-in-law's funeral, six months previously. ' Yes,' said the new-comer, with an affability tempered with a natural dignity. 'Will you kiss me, Miss Manvers? I hope you will allow me to be your friend V Ethel Queensley was a slender brunette, with pale, transparent skin, large blue eyes, and blood red lips ; she was aerial, startling, elf-like — an up-to-date edition of Titania. Half-an-hour later, as Percy took the head of the supper-table, he looked across at his mother and then at the two beautiful girls who sat on either side. ' Dear me, dear me, this is very pretty !

I feel like Paris in front of the three Graces.' Old Dr. Queensley was a London physician, who, like many members of his profession, had served the cause of charity to the detriment of his own exchequer. His children, however, had done well in the world : his son, Dr. Eowland Queensley, married the daughter of a Man chester millionaire, and Dora, we have seen, became the wife of the Honourable Archibald Congreave. Neither union was happy ; Dora was left a widow a few months after her marriage, and Rowland's health had been so shattered by overwork, while a student, that he was soon obliged to relinquish all idea of prac tice, and retire to the south of France. This had been a sad blow to the daughter of the provincial magnate, whose only aim in marriage had been to secure a footing in the metropolis, aud still further illuminate its social spheres with the glitter of her father's gold.

This disappointment had had a sad effect on her disposition, which had never been of the sweetest, and what the gorgeous sun of the south gave to Rowland Queensley in health it took from him in happiness. Dora had been aware of her brother's matrimonial wretchedness, and she had entertained towards the woman who had been the cause of it, a bitter hatred. For many years she had ceased to spend the summer in France with them ; this gradual estrangement had also put a stop to the yearly visits of her niece to Oriol ; so Ethel and Percy had seen very little of each other since they were quite children. Strange to say, Mrs. Queensley's health had also broken down in the latter part of her husband's life, and she only survived him two years. When Ethel was thus left an orphan, Mrs. Congreave, who was her only relative, naturally became her guardian, the old people in Manchester having been dead for some time.

It was decided that the girl should remain at a convent, where she had been educated, and the superioress of which had a great affection for her. Having now reached her majority and entered into the possession of her large fortune, she came to England to make her home at Oriol. Percival had been agreeably surprised, when he met his cousin at the station, to find how pretty she was, — he had hardly seen her during the rapid visit he paid to Nice with his mother on the occasion of his aunt's death, — and the effect upon him had been a display of boister ousness quite startling in one generally so reserved and apparently unemotional. As they stood in the hall bidding each other good-night, he could not help exclaiming, ' Why, Ethel, you look like a fairy.' ' Fairy Ethel,' she answered, musingly, ' that is pretty.' ' Then it shall remain.' ' And the god-father shall kiss the fairy.' So saying, she presented her cheek, and Percy blushed crimson as he touched it with his lips.

Mrs. Congreave looked displeased, but only said, ' I see you are children still.' ' Then it is nice to be children,' said Phyllis. Miss Queensley that night floated on a silver cloud through rose-tinted dreams. Early the next morning, as she was lying in bed with her eyes half-closed, reluctant to touch earth again, there was a discreet knock at the door. ' I came to see if you were awake,' said Phyllis; 'I thought you would like a stroll through the grounds, everything is so beautiful and quiet at this time.' ' That was a good thought, Miss Manvers.' ' You must not call me Miss Manvers, everybody here says Phyllis.' ' Even Percival?' asked Ethel, slyly. ' I should not mind, but Mrs. Congreave says it would not be proper.' ' Perhaps it would not be ;' and there was a significant stress laid on the first word. ' Shall I send your maid ?' ' No, thanks.

I am used to dressing myself; at the convent I had no maid,' said Miss Queens ley, as she threw back the coverings, and slid her dainty feet into her sandals. ' I will wait for you downstairs.' ' No, stay and talk while I dress. Tell me all about Oriol, and my aunt, and her friends, and yourself.' As may be imagined, conversation once started rolled on merrily, and it was a pretty tableau that of these two young girls, the vivacious American perched on the sill of an open win dow, prattling away, describing people and things in a glow of picturesque language, and sprinkling the whole with her strange curt remarks, while the ethereal Ethel moved about, revealing the treasures of her beauty as she accomplished the rites of her morning toilet. ' I think Oriol a most delightful place. I wish I could always live here,' said Mrs. Con greave's niece. ' Mr. Spencer Carlton would hardly like to hear that wish.' The phrase had escaped Miss Manvers's lips before she had thought of what she was saying. ' Mr. Spencer Carlton !

And who pray is Mr. Spencer Carlton, that my wishes should be sub jected to his criticism ?' ' I am sorry I mentioned his name, I did not know it was a secret.' ' I do not understand ; but I fail to see what this person has to do with the question, as I have never heard his name before. Who is he?' ' Your future husband.' 'My husband!' Ethel turned round as one stung, her face pale, an angry look in her eyes. But curiosity was too strong, so controlling herself she asked, with a forced smile, ' What is this seven-day wonder ?' ' No wonder, only a marriage.' 'Does my . . . the gentleman you mentioned, visit here?' ' Very often.' ' Young or old ?' ' Young ; about thirty.' ' Good-looking ?' * So, so.' * What does he do ?' ' Do ? Nothing, of course.' ' Of course,' sneered Ethel. Miss Queensley thought for a few minutes, while Phyllis watched her closely from under her eyebrows. ' And Mr. Carlton — I think that was the name — loves me ?' ' You must not ask me too many questions, please.