OF THE 
 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 8>d<©d 
 
 
THE DEMONIAC 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 By WALTER BESANT, 
 
 Author of “ Armor elle of Lyonessef “ Herr Paulas Etc, 
 
 THE USURY OF THE 
 
 3 HN 2 8 1933 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOIS. 
 
 NEW yore: 
 
 F. M. LUPTON, PUBLISHER, 
 106 and 108 Reade Street. 
 
li-; nmf 
 
82 3 
 
 B4-6J 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 i 
 
 t 
 
 <o 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOW THE THING CAME. 
 
 of half a dozen men sat or lounged about 
 0^ the room. They had been sitting there all the evening. 
 ^ Some smoked cigarettes more ruinous to the nerves than 
 opium; some took their tobacco in the ancient manner by 
 means of a pipe. On the table stood two or three bottles 
 of apollinaris and a bottle of whisky, newly opened for a 
 young profligate, who still dared to take it with his apol- 
 lonaris in spite of public opinion. These men constituted 
 the best set in the college; that was acknowledged by 
 themselves. All were reading men and all good men. 
 They talked of literature, art, music, and poetry, with 
 equal readiness, and always with that fine breadth of 
 handling and those vigorous, certain strokes which belong 
 especially to their time of life. No critic so unrelenting 
 as the critic of twenty-one; no demand for style more ex- 
 acting than that of this critic. We lower our demands as 
 we grow older and perceive that they are impossible. Just 
 m the same way we start with the belief that every great 
 man is a hero; that every beautiful woman is an angel; 
 that everything is possible to our own intellect, and that 
 life is long enough to satisfy all our desires— all, all— even 
 the boundless desires of youth. 
 
 bo they talked, these young men; sometimes they were 
 cynical, as some young men love to be; sometimes the en- 
 thusiasm of youth flared up, and they were carried far 
 
 ^ A LITTLE 
 
 824272 
 
4 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 above the region of the cynic into the pure, sunlit atmos- 
 phere of faith and hope. And when the college clock 
 struck twelve and one man got up and said it was time for 
 bed, everybody felt that the evening had passed away too 
 quickly — as is indeed the case with every beautiful even- 
 ing, and more especially the evening of life. Then the 
 tenant of the rooms was left alone. 
 
 His name was George Humphrey Atheling. He lay 
 back in his easy-chair, loath to go to bed. The college, 
 when the footsteps of the departing men ceased upon the 
 stairs, became perfectly quiet. He was perhaps after a lit- 
 tle while the only man in it out of bed. The candles on 
 the table were burning low. 
 
 “ 1 suppose I must go,” he murmured, with a sigh. 
 
 Yet he lingered. He got up, however, and looked out 
 of the window, which he threw open. The night air— it 
 was early in the month of May — blew fresh and cold upon 
 his cheek. The broad lawns of the Fellows garden 
 stretched at his feet in the moonlight, the two great wal- 
 nut-trees casting black shadows. Beyond the lawns the 
 flower-beds and shrubs lay massed together in black and 
 white. He sighed again, being a little tired, and shut the 
 window. 
 
 Yet he made no haste to get into bed. For some rea- 
 son or other he did not want to^go to bed; the thought of 
 bed made him uneasy. He was nervous this evening* 
 He had become, ..since his friends left him, suddenly and 
 strangely excited. Yet why? There was absolutely no 
 reason why he should not lie down at once and go to sleep 
 as usual. Nobody slept better or more readily than this 
 young man. Nothing had happened to excite him or 
 make him nervous. He had not been reading too hard. 
 George was one of those happily constituted persons who 
 never do read too hard. He had not been smoking too 
 much— a couple of pipes is not excessive. He had cer- 
 tainly not been drinking; George never did drink. He 
 
HI.UIf.HIVf-f ilM* 
 
 THE DEMOHIAC. 5 
 
 had not been gambling; lie never did gamble, unless you 
 call sixpenny points at whist gambling for a man who has 
 seven thousand pounds a year of his own. George Atlie- 
 ling was a perfectly healthy, steady and well-balanced 
 young man, who had been at a school where the masters 
 are said to have the greatest possible influence and the 
 best possible influence over the boys, and are themselves, 
 one and all, as remarkable for virtue as they are for foot- 
 ball. Thus if he lacked principle, a thing which one 
 would be sorry to affirm, such a young man would make 
 up for the defect by a deeper reverence for form. Thus 
 many things which afford the greatest gratification to the 
 baser sort are regarded by such young men as beneath con- 
 tempt, if only because they are bad form. Almost every- 
 thing is bad form which pleases the great mass of man- 
 kind. Only those things are to be followed which advance 
 the development or cultivation of the sou], a thing which 
 every young man must continually regard with jealousy. 
 It will be perceived that this kind of teaching may very 
 well convert a healthy boy into a half-conscious prig — in 
 fact it very often does. - This is its weak side. On the 
 other hand, when you have got a strong brain to deal with 
 there is no better way of beginning the world than to start 
 with an immense respect for your own possibilities. 
 
 George Atheling, owing to this enormous respect for 
 himself, read diligently for honors, desiring to get a first- 
 • class. It is always good for a young man at the outset 
 to have a first-class behind him; it shows that there are 
 possibilities in him. For the same reason he cultivated 
 literature, art, and music. That is to say, as regards the 
 latter he endeavored, as yet with small success, to under- 
 stand what constitutes a good picture and what a sonata 
 should suggest and teach. In some athletics he was good, 
 especially in rowing; he spoke at the union rather stiffly, 
 but after careful preparation of his speech. It was under- 
 stood that he would certainly enter upon a political career. 
 
6 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 and his friends believed that he would quietly step to the 
 front and become a great statesman. It is astonishing to 
 reflect upon the magnificence of the careers prophesied for 
 certain undergraduates by their friends. If only half the 
 greatness were really to come off, the country would not 
 be big enough to contain all its great men. But though 
 events do not exactly come off as they were prophesied, 
 there are, as in every other condition of things, compensa- 
 tions. Many of the men, for instance, continue to believe 
 in their own possible greatness, and are thereby made 
 happy. Fate or accident has prevented them from receiv- 
 ing the world’s acknowledgment of their greatness; they 
 are the unknown kings of men; they are the unappreciat- 
 ed prophets. 
 
 Had George Atheling continued in the line of life which 
 he had laid down for himself he would have gained his 
 first-class; he would have been called to the Bar, he would 
 have entered the House of Commons, and then— but one 
 can not tell what might have happened afterward. Only 
 one thing is certain, that the school priggishness would 
 have been shaken off at an early period. A man of his 
 bodily strength could never become a prig. Heard one 
 ever of a great, strong man continuing in the paths of the 
 prig? ' . > ’ • ; § 
 
 But he did not continue in that line of life. A thing 
 happened to him, this very night, which was destined to 
 change his line of life altogether;*a very strange and terri- 
 ble thing; a thing which he had never suspected, dreaded 
 or anticipated; a thing of which he had never heard. 
 
 Understand, to begin with, that there were no premoni- 
 tions, also that he had had no anxieties of any kind; that 
 he was perfectly happy and satisfied with himself, his lot 
 and his expectations; that he had heaps of money, that he 
 had no bad brothers, elder or younger; that he had no 
 foolish virgins for sisters, that he was twenty-one years of 
 age, that he was perfectly sound and strong— a goodly and 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 7 
 
 a proper young man. These things must all be very clear- 
 ly understood. 
 
 To look at he was a very fine young man. He stood 
 over six feet in height, and for breadth of shoulder, depth 
 of chest, solidity of Tegs and arms, was built for two inches 
 more at least. Everything about him was modeled in a 
 gigantic scale; his hands were big, his fingers long and 
 strong; his limbs were huge, his head was big, his features 
 were strong and distinct, his short hair curled all over his 
 head for the very strength of it. He rowed five in the col- 
 lege boat, and had refused a place in the 'Varsity trial 
 eights. 
 
 Nothing wrong about this young man at all. Nature 
 had fashioned him in her kindliest mood; nothing at all 
 wrong. Nature is so seldom in a really kind mood. For 
 upon one she bestows an asthma, on another a gout, on a 
 third rheumatism, on a fourth neuralgia — to speak only of 
 nervous complaints which lie dormant for many years and 
 break out when one grows older. Another she afflicts with 
 short sight, partial deafness, a stammer, a squint, or some 
 other little defect or deformity which all through life shall 
 prohibit perfect enjoyment. Others she endows with pov- 
 erty coupled with ambition, or with obscure origin coupled 
 with poor cousins in multitudes, or stupidity coupled with 
 rank which demands great parts. This young man she 
 endowed with great riches, good birth, perfect health of 
 body — so far as he himself or the world could understand 
 — a strong brain, industry and resolution and ambition. 
 What more can nature possibly do for any man? One 
 thing more. She can make him of those who speak the 
 great English language and belong to one of the two great 
 English nations. And this, too, nature did for George 
 Atheling. 
 
 As he turned from the window his eyes fell upon an un- 
 opened letter on the mantel-shelf. He took it and glanced 
 at the handwriting. 
 
3 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 It is from Elinor/' he said, and tore it open. 
 
 “ Dearest George/' it said, with affectionate famil- 
 iarity, 44 1 think that I have at last succeeded in overcom- 
 ing all scruples. My mother has given her consent at last. 
 The pater has never really objected. I am to enter 
 Newnham in October. As I shall be eighteen in Septem- 
 ber I may be supposed at least to know my own mind. I 
 am getting on very well with my coach, who is a delightful 
 old gentleman and a miracle of learning. My Latin prose 
 still leaves a good deal to be desired. In Greek 1 am doing 
 much better. I work all day long, except for my two 
 hours of exercise— which everybody, especially my coach — 
 insists upon my taking every day. I ride or play tennis. 
 Oh! I am full of ambition and of hopes. We shall be 
 undergraduates together, but you will be in your third 
 year while I am in my first. You will look down upon 
 me. Never mind. 
 
 44 You dear old boy, I mean to get my first-class, too. 
 The way has been shown by other women. I will be a 
 first-class in honors, if only to be on the same intellectual 
 level as my husband. He shall not be able to talk about 
 things of which I understand nothing. What you read I 
 will read. 1 will be your companion and your equal. I 
 will take my place beside you, not behind you. I could 
 not marry a man who would look down upon me from 
 heights which I was unable to reach, any more than 1 
 could marry a man whose mental level I could easily sur- 
 mount. Not so, sir. If 1 go to Newnham it is that 1 
 may make myself worthy of one who is to become a great 
 man — a very great man. Let me be a very great woman 
 if he is to take my hand. Write me long letters — quite 
 long letters — if you can spare the time, all about yourself. 
 Good-bye, you dear old George. 
 
 44 Affectionately, Elinor." 
 
 A very pretty letter: it went straight to the young 
 
THE HEM OKI AC. 
 
 9 
 
 man’s heart. His eyes softened as he read it. “ Newn- 
 ham, Nellie. We shall be undergraduates together. But 
 I am afraid they won’t let me ask you to dine in Hall—” 
 Not much love in the letter, but enough. When young 
 people have known each other so long — namely, from 
 childhood — and have dropped into an understood engage- 
 ment almost without a word spoken, at nineteen and six- 
 teen, it would be absurd to think of raptures and darts 
 and flames. A calm and steady flame, at best, was the 
 love of these two young people for each other. 
 
 “ Newnham! Nellie at Newnham! I wonder how often 
 1 shall be able to see her?” George put the letter in his 
 pocket. 66 Nellie a first-class in the classical tripos! 
 Well, why not Nell as well as any other?” 
 
 He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. 
 There a strange disquiet seized him; his heart began to 
 beat; he shivered; he thought he must have taken cold. 
 He hastened to seek the friendly embrace of the blankets. 
 
 Now, if he had known what was going to happen he 
 would have sat up to wait for it; he would have met that 
 thing abroad awake, with a stout heart and an iron will. 
 If he had understood the fluttering of his heart and the 
 vague disquiet which filled his soul he would have known 
 that these things were caused by a benevolent fairy, in- 
 capable of doing more than pluck at his sleeve and whis- 
 per in his ear and warn him — though by signs that he did 
 not understand— not to go to bed that night at all. 
 
 Because, you see, on his pillow, waiting till the man 
 should be asleep, when he could whisper evil things and 
 fill with abominable purposes and horrid temptations, sat a 
 devil. George did not know this, unfortunately, and so 
 lay down, closed his eyes, and in a few minutes fell fast 
 asleep. 
 
 He slept for two hours. Then suddenly he started vio- 
 lently. He heard, as one sometimes does in dreams, his 
 
10 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 own name called loudly. He sat up in bed and listened. 
 No, it was only a dream. 
 
 He was about to lie down again; still half asleep, when 
 he became aware of a most singular feeling in the throat. 
 It was dry and parched. It grew drier, more parched 
 every moment. It seemed to be on fire. Quickly, in a 
 few moments, the dry throat became like a red-hot fur- 
 nace, and there fell upon him a necessity to drink, just as 
 one is constrained to pour water upon flames. He sprung 
 out of bed and seized the carafe. But he put it down 
 without drinking any of the water. It was not water he 
 wanted. Not ail the water in the Nile would assuage that 
 raging thirst or put out that fire. He rushed into the 
 other room. On the table stood that bottle of whisky, 
 newly opened, for the man who had taken a little. He 
 seized a tumbler and half filled it with spirits. Then he 
 filled up the glass with water and drank it at one breath. 
 Oh! the sweetness and the refreshment of that draught. 
 He took another and another with deep-drawn sighs of 
 satisfaction. Not Tantalus himself, when the water ceased 
 to avoid his lips, drank with greater rapture or more 
 greediness. 
 
 It was over. He wondered what it meant. What had 
 he done to cause this sudden and horrible thirst — this rag- 
 ing fire in his throat? He sighed again. It was over — 
 would it come again? 
 
 He went back to his bedroom. But he took the bottle 
 with him, and he sat on the bed trying to understand the 
 thing. Such a consuming thirst he had never before ex- 
 perienced; not even after the first row over the course, not 
 even when climbing painfully up the slopes of Snowdon; 
 never had he felt, never had he conceived the idea of such 
 a frightful, appalling, overwhelming thirst. 
 
 No man in the world had ever been more temperate 
 than George Atheling — not more abstemious, because 
 George always took his pint of beer with his lunch and his 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 11 
 
 claret with his dinner like any other young man. But not 
 the least breath of suspicion had ever rested upon him in 
 the matter of temperance. Whisky and potash, as you 
 have seen, were to be had in his rooms by those who, in 
 spite of all the influence now brought against the practice, 
 still took this mixture; he never did. 
 
 George, however, never drank this compound. Up to 
 this moment his head had never felt the potency of drink, 
 nor had his mind ever understood how men can crave 
 ardent liquor. Never, never, never. 
 
 Therefore the thing must clearly have been by the in- 
 stigation of the devil. 
 
 While he sat upon his bed the fiery thirst assailed him a 
 second time. It was a flaming, roaring, raging, consum- 
 ing, devouring thirst. He was all throat — burning, scorch- 
 ing throat. The thirst compelled him, forced him, drove 
 him, to drink again. He drank plain whisky, whisky and 
 water, plain whisky again. At last he seemed to have sub- 
 dued the thing. But he had nearly finished the bottle. 
 
 He lay back wondering stupidly what it meant and what 
 illness was about to follow. Again — a third time — the fire 
 broke out. He drank up the rest of the bottle, dropped it 
 from his hand on the floor, and sunk back asleep. The whole 
 business had hardly lasted five minutes. Perhaps he had 
 never been fully awake at all. 
 
 At seven o'clock his gyp looked in to call him. He 
 found his master lying on his back, breathing heavily, his 
 face flushed. At the bedside, on the floor, lay the empty 
 bottle. 
 
 “Good Lord!" said the man, “1 opened it last night 
 at nine o'clock. And none of the gentlemen drank it. 
 He's finished the whole bottle. Mr. Atheling, too! Who'd 
 ha' thought it! Here! Wake up, sir; wake up. Mr. 
 Atheling, of all the gentlemen in the college!" 
 
 He could not wake him up. He therefore desisted,. 
 
12 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 The gyp, by name Mavis, was a man about five-and- 
 forty. He belonged to the college; his father had been a 
 gyp before him and his mother was a bedmaker; he had 
 never dreamed of anything better for him than the post he 
 held. He had now been a gyp for twenty-five years; that 
 is, for eight generations of undergraduates. He was a 
 man whom some men loathed and others regarded as the 
 best servant in the world. He was always respectful, 
 always noiseless, always perfect in his work. Yet some 
 men loathed him — they spoke of worms, reptiles and 
 things that crawl when his name was mentioned. His 
 eyes were downcast, and his face, clean shaven, was pale. 
 
 The gyp, therefore, finding that he could not wake up 
 his master, took away the whisky bottle, left him, and went 
 about his work. 
 
 At nine, at ten, and at eleven he looked into the room 
 again. At last he found Mr. Atheling sitting on the bed, 
 half dressed. 
 
 44 Whatever is the matter, sir?” asked the man, 44 what 
 in the world — ” 
 
 44 I’ve got a splitting headache.” 
 
 44 Well, sir, you’ll excuse me, but if you drink a whole 
 bottle of whisky at night, what can you expect but a head 
 like a lump o’ lead. I wonder you’re alive, sir. That I 
 do. A whole bottle!” 
 
 44 A whole bottle?” George started, remembering sud- 
 denly what had happened. 
 
 64 Mavis,” he said, 44 something very strange has hap- 
 pened to me. 1 got up in the middle of the night with a 
 raging thirst and I began to drink. I had to drink, else I 
 should have gone mad. Why ” — his eyes rolled and his 
 voice became thick — 44 1 feel it again. 1 am going mad, I 
 believe. My throat is on fire — it is on fire.” He fell back 
 upon the bed and buried his head in the pillows with a 
 groan. 
 
 The gyp Mavis ha(J seen other young men — they are by 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 13 
 
 no means so numerous as they were wont to be fifty years 
 ago at this ancient seat of learning. He had seen them in 
 the repentant morning, when punishment is administered 
 with an equal hand, and when hot coppers, fiery throats, 
 disordered stomachs, parched tongues and fevered brows 
 are served out among sinners. He knew the symptoms, 
 and supposed that these were no more than the effects of 
 an ordinary case. 
 
 44 What you want,” he said, 46 is a small glass of stuff, 
 neat — a hair of the dog—” 
 
 44 Quick! quick! The whisky! Bring it! bring it!” 
 
 The gyp opened another bottle and brought it. To his 
 amazement his master, the most sober of young men, did 
 not wait for a glass, but began to pour the whisky down 
 his throat, drinking it out of the bottle. 
 
 44 Good Lord!” he cried, 44 Mr. Atheling, sir, consider; 
 youTl kill yourself.” He caught his master by the arm 
 and tried to take the bottle from him. George raised his 
 fist, massive and ponderous. The gypsy recoiled at the 
 very sight of the huge weapon. He fell backward into the 
 tub, where he sat with eyes of terror and of amazement, 
 regardless of the cold water, while he saw his master gasp- 
 ing between the drinks with red, swollen cheeks and star- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 44 Good Lord!” he cried again, 44 heTl kill himself.” 
 
 He got up and essayed to dry his clothes a little with the 
 bath towel. George went on drinking, but less greedily. 
 The first strength of the attack was gone. Then it left 
 him altogether and he staggered out into his keeping-room. 
 
 Breakfast was laid, but he refused to take any, throwing 
 himself into a chair. 
 
 The gyp cleared away the things and left him, shutting 
 the outer oak. 
 
 When he came back about five or six he found his mas- 
 ter dead drunk on the floor. And another bottle of 
 whisky was gone. 
 
14 
 
 ' ; 1 ' 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Now,” said Mavis, “ I wonder what’s best to be done 
 — for him and for me. ” 
 
 He contemplated this fall of man with more than com- 
 mon curiosity. Other Adams he had seen fall in a like 
 deplorable manner, but never such an Adam-such an 
 unexpected fall. 
 
 66 Well,” he went on, 66 nobody would have believed no- 
 body. The very last gentleman in the college — that’s 
 what I should ha’ said. That’s what the master would 
 ha’ said. That’s what the tutor would ha’ said. That’s 
 what all the gentlemen would ha’ said. The very last. 
 
 And such a truly determined go. I never heard tell of 
 such a drunk before; I never see such a drunk. He ought 
 to be a dead ’un with all that whisky. If he hadn’t been 
 such a uncommon big man he would be a dead ’un, too — 
 stiff ’un and dead. ” 
 
 He lifted his master with great difficulty from the floor 
 to the sofa. And then he left him there. But he im- 
 pressed upon the bedmaker, who knew nothing about the 
 bottles of whisky, that Mr. Atheling was ill and must not 
 be disturbed on any account. He himself would lock after 
 him. 
 
 In the evening at nine o’clock the gyp came again. He 
 laid out a little food upon the table in case his master 
 should awake hungry, and he left him in darkness and 
 went away. 
 
 It was full daylight when George awoke. He sat up on 
 the sofa and looked round him. He had fallen asleep on 
 the sofa. He remembered nothing more. He got up, un- 
 dressed, and went* to bed. 
 
 In the morning his gyp found him sleeping like a child. 
 
 The fever had spent itself. 
 
 Presently he arose and dressed. His hands shook, his 
 head was aching, but he felt no more thirst. 
 
 66 Mavis,” he said, 66 you were here yesterday — in the 
 morning?’' 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 15 
 
 66 1 was, sir.” 
 
 “ Tell me — did you ever — did you ever see a man in 
 such a condition before?” 
 
 44 Well, sir,” said the man, 66 1 have seen many a gen- 
 tleman as drunk as a log, but 1 don't think 1 ever see 
 any gentleman so fierce with it as you were yesterday 
 morning. Lord! It seemed as if you couldn't get the 
 drink down fast enough.” 
 
 64 1 could not, indeed. You have exactly described it.” 
 
 44 Three bottles of whisky gone since Tuesday night, and 
 now it's Thursday. There's many a poor fellow as gets 
 the horrors on a good deal less than that. Three bottles 
 of whisky in one night and a day! Because last night you 
 didn't drink anything.” 
 
 44 Mavis, who saw me besides yourself?” 
 
 44 No one saw you. No one, sir. I took good care of 
 that. I took away the bottles and told Mrs. Grip ”* — she 
 was the bedmaker — 44 that you were ill and not to be dis- 
 turbed. She suspects nothing. If she did it would be all 
 over the college by this time. No, sir, I know my duty to 
 the gentlemen of my college, I hope. Your oak was 
 sported and you were not at home to anybody, not even to 
 the master, if he'd been taking a walk this way.” 
 
 George breathed more freely. It is bad to be at the 
 mercy of a servant, but even that is better than to have 
 your shame proclaimed all over the place, though you 
 must bear it. He drew a purse from his pocket. There 
 was in it a ten-pound note, and he gave it to the gyp. 
 Thus the Britons bought, out the Saxons and the Saxons 
 bought out the Danes. 
 
 44 This,” he said, 44 is for yesterday, for to-day, and for 
 to-morrow and ever afterward. " 
 
 44 You're very kind, sir, Fm sure. I wasn't thinking 
 of that. ” Mavis pocketed the present with a smile of satis- 
 faction which could not be restrained. 44 Of course, sir, 
 no one shall know. And if at any future time — ” 
 
16 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Silence!” cried George, with gathering wrath. 
 “ There can be no future time. It is impossible!” 
 
 He marched into his keeping-room, being now fully 
 dressed. 
 
 Mavis pulled out the note and looked at it. Yes, his 
 eyes had not deceived him. It was a tenner. 
 
 “Lord!” he said, “ here's luck. And it's only a be- 
 ginning. He's sure to do it again. They always do. 
 Pity! pity! He's at the end of his second year a'ready. 
 Ah, what I might have made out of him by this time if 
 he'd only begun when he was a freshman!” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOW THE THING WAS RECEIVED. 
 
 George swallowed some breakfast. Then, reflecting 
 that the men were all at lecture and that nobody would 
 meet him, he took his hat and walked out of college. He 
 wanted to be alone all day in order to think about it — to 
 put the thing clearly to himself. In order to be alone he 
 must walk out of the place. 
 
 He took the road before him — that which led to Mad- 
 ingley — and tramped resolutely along the broad flat way 
 which stretches across the broad flat country. 
 
 For the first time in his life he was humiliated. Worse 
 than humiliation had fallen upon him; a profound abase- 
 ment, a feeling of degradation. He was hurled from his 
 heights of self-respect. “I am a hog, 1 am a hog,” he 
 said a thousand times. “ I made no resistance. I drank 
 because I was thirsty. What became of my strength? 
 Where was my will? Where was my self-respect? All — 
 all vanished in a moment. Why did this thing fall upon 
 me? How was it caused?” with other questions rising 
 naturally out of the situation, just as an examination 
 paper rise*? naturally out of the Peloponnesian war. Only, 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 17 
 
 had he attempted to pass this examination, to answer these 
 questions, he would have been most certainly and surely 
 plucked, because he had no answer to any single one. 
 
 How did it happen? Why, it is a thing incredible. 
 Who could expect it? That a young man of strictly tem- 
 perate habits should thus suddenly become -a drunkard — 
 that he should drink for two days and more without stop- 
 ping — who could believe it? There is a well-known story 
 of a monk who for some reason was condemned to commit 
 one of the deadly sins. He chose drunkenness as the least 
 deadly — if there is any difference in the deadliness of sins. 
 When he recovered he found that he had committed all 
 the rest. George Atheling was like that monk in one re- 
 spect, namely, that he had actually done the thing which 
 he had always held in the greatest loathing and contempt. 
 Like the late Duke of Surrey, he was induced, on hearing 
 the commandment 44 Thou shalt not get drunk, ” to mur- 
 mur, instead of the form appointed, the words 44 Never 
 did that.” The commandment forbade a thing which 
 was impossible to him. And he had done it; he was that 
 miserable, cowardly creature — a drunkard. 
 
 He walked hard; he grew hot; he grew thirsty. A 
 dreadful fear fell upon him that this might prove a return 
 of the former thirst insatiable. He stopped at a little vil- 
 lage shop where they kept ginger beer, and ordered a bottle 
 of this delectable compound with horrid forebodings. 
 
 Nothing followed. His thirst was the result of fatigue 
 and exercise, coupled with the natural effects of his orgy. 
 He drank his ginger beer and felt relieved. .Presently he 
 turned and walked back. When he reached the college he 
 was so much better that he was encouraged to venture into 
 Hall, where he accounted for his absence the day before by 
 a little fiction— -one of that kind not put down by the Re- 
 cording Angel. He said he had had a touch of sore throat. 
 He was looking ill, they told him. What he felt was that 
 he might at any moment be seized at the throat by this 
 
18 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 devil of a thirst and bite himself. Fortunately this did 
 not happen. 
 
 He retreated after Hall to his own rooms, afraid to trust 
 himself any longer among his friends. He went to bed 
 early, not so much because he was tired, but because he 
 was anxious. He went to bed with a dreadful fear of what 
 might happen. He awoke at three expectant. Nothing 
 at all happened. He had no desire for drink. The 
 thought of drinking whisky at that time filled him with 
 loathing. He laid his head upon the pillow and fell asleep 
 again. In the morning he awoke perfectly recovered* 
 He got up early, took a header in the college bath and a 
 run round Parker’s Piece before breakfast. He was him- 
 self again. Nay, though he thought of the thing with 
 horror, it was principally because he had made so shame- 
 ful a surrender. Should it ever come upon him again he 
 would fight it down. Certainly he would fight it down. 
 But perhaps it would not come any more. 
 
 Mavis, for his part, regarded his master with a greatly 
 increased interest. And he took care, being a thoughtful 
 gyp and knowing what was due to his gentlemen, that 
 there should be ready to hand, at least one bottle of ardent 
 spirits to carry his master along, in case he should again be 
 visited by that consuming thirst. It will be observed that 
 Mavis belonged naturally to the tribe of those who live by 
 providing for the vice of others. Mavis was disappointed. 
 The term went on and there was no second attack. He 
 watched his master closely. He drank next to nothing. 
 He trained and rowed in the college boat. He read in the 
 mornings and in the evenings went about among the other 
 men, exactly as before. It seemed as if he had forgotten 
 that night and day. George had not forgotten it. Such 
 a thing is not so readily forgotten, he had yielded, coward- 
 ly; such a thing as a disgraceful surrender is not easily for- 
 gotten. But he had been taken unawares. If it should 
 fall upon him a second time he should know how to fight 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 19 
 
 it. He had been attacked suddenly and in his sleep; he 
 was half asleep; next time, should there ever happen a 
 next time, he would meet it as a man should. 
 
 Other things happened which prevented him from for- 
 getting it. A man in the college — a man with whom 
 George would not consort— a man of low and vicious 
 habits, was known to be suffering from delirium tremens. 
 This made the men talk of drink. There were articles 
 and letters in the papers on the great temperance question. 
 And one everning a thing was said which gave him food 
 for much reflection. 
 
 It was in a small company of talk in the evening. They 
 were talking at large — encyclopedically — as young men 
 delight. Every clever young man would be Doctor Uni- 
 versalis. For the moment they talked of heredity. 
 
 44 Everything is hereditary,” said one of them who was 
 going in for science, and therefore had a right to pro- 
 nounce. “ We inherit everything — our virtues and our 
 vices, our strength and our weakness — from our forefa- 
 thers. ” 
 
 66 According to that,” said another, 44 no man can be 
 praised or blamed.” 
 
 44 Not for his virtues or his vices, but for the extent to 
 which he carries things. When a child is born we ought 
 to be able to predict for him all the forces which will act 
 upon him. One grandfather was penurious, or one was ex- 
 travagant; one was rash, or one was timid — and so on. 
 Unfortunately we keep no record of our grandfathers and 
 their peculiarities. If we were to begin to do this it would 
 be the better for our grandchildren. 1 take it that in- 
 herited tendencies may be strengthened or weakened ac- 
 cording to the action of any generation. If the worse man 
 in the world could realize the miseries his way of life was 
 transmitting to his children, he would become virtuous. *’ 
 
 44 Well, but we inherit all the virtues and all the vices 
 and all the diseases.” 
 
20 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Each generation gets only a part. Asthma goes to 
 one and gout to another. We haven’t time, I suppose, in 
 seventy years to work through the whole of our inherit- 
 ance. Methusalah is the only man who really did that. 
 Things seem capricious only because we have not found 
 out a law of heredity. Take the most hereditary thing of 
 all, for instance — drunkenness.” 
 
 64 Drunkenness hereditary?” 
 
 46 Why, of course it is as hereditary as gout. In a large 
 family it will attack one and spare all the rest. Or it will 
 jump over a whole generation and break out in the next.” 
 
 George heard no more, for now he remembered a little 
 episode in his family history — a thing he had heard once 
 and had long since forgotten. His own grandfather, his 
 mother’s father, had, to use a familiar expression, drank 
 himself to death. He remembered plainly hearing that 
 stated somewhere. How can a man drink himself? Why, 
 if every draught accelerated his end the liquor may be a 
 figure of speech — stand for the breath of life. He drinks 
 himself up. 
 
 Who told him this? Not his mother, certainly. Yet 
 he knew it. He had heard it. His grandfather died quite 
 young — under thirty. He drank himself to death. So 
 this, then, was part of his inheritance. His friends talked; 
 he sat silent, resolving to meet this danger with a strong 
 will and the courage of a valiant heart. He longed for the 
 occasion to arrive. The sooner it came the better. Since 
 the battle had to be fought out, let it be fought speedily 
 while he was at his strongest and best. 
 
 The occasion lingered. The term passed by without 
 any further trouble. 
 
 On the last day of the term most of the men went down. 
 It suited his arrangements to stay up for one day longer. 
 He had almost ceased to fear the thing. He was so sure 
 of his power to meet it when it came that he tried to 
 trouble himself no more about it. To be sure, he had 
 
THE. DEMONIAC. 
 
 21 
 
 yielded shamefully. But then he was taken unawares. 
 The next time — 
 
 He sat reading in his room until midnight. Then he 
 went to bed and fell asleep. 
 
 Early in the morning, before day-break, he awoke with a 
 start. The horrible thirst was upon him a second time; 
 the fire in his throat, the craving irresistible, vehement, 
 for strong drink had seized him again. 
 
 He made no resistance; he attempted none. It seemed 
 impossible for him to think of resistance. He never 
 thought of resisting. He rushed into the other room. 
 There was no whisky. He found a bottle of brandy and 
 drank that. When it was finished he hurled himself upon 
 a bottle of sherry, as Ajax threw himself upon the inno- 
 cent sheep, and made dead men of every one, until he 
 rolled over and became an unconscious log. 
 
 Three days later, pa.le and haggard, knocked to pieces 
 by an orgy far longer, far worse than the first; an orgy 
 which terrified the gyp and almost drove him to reveal 
 what was going on to the tutor, George went down. Mavis, 
 after he had carried his 'master's portmanteau to the col- 
 lege gates, went back to his staircase and sat on the stairs, 
 smiling with satisfaction. In his pocket was another ten- 
 pound note. Very few college gyps, he reflected, even 
 when they've got a young nobleman, had made a better 
 term of it than himself. 
 
 George went down, wrecked in mind more than in body. 
 For a man may fail once and yet retrieve his good name. 
 Regiments have been known to run away from the enemy 
 one day and to defeat them the next. But George failed 
 twice, and the second failure was far worse than the first. 
 
 He fell into despair. He could no longer associate with 
 other men. He must leave the university. He wrote at 
 once to take his name off the college books without assign- 
 ing any reason. 64 Pity he is so rich," said the tutor; 44 1 
 hoped that he would have gone on, as he began without the 
 
22 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 ordinary stimulus. Nobody ought to be allowed to be rich 
 till he is fifty at least.” He was himself doing extremely 
 well, and he was forty-nine. 
 
 The tutor was wrong. It was not his big income which 
 made him lazy. It was this truly awful thing that had 
 fallen upon him. This it was that made him afraid and 
 ashamed to return -among his old friends. Sooner or later 
 they would find him out. 
 
 Once — twice — in Cambridge. A month later — in Lon- 
 don, and never any resistance at all. Never the least 
 power of resistance. As soon as the fiery furnace began 
 to burn in his throat he rushed to the bottles and drank 
 drank— drank — mad — mad to extinguish the flames. 
 
 All that summer he stayed in London. He would not 
 trust himself to see his fiancee, Elinor Thanet. He wrote, 
 making excuses. He was afraid to face her. 
 
 Then a great dread fell upon him that he might some- 
 how be attacked without the means of allaying the thing. 
 He thought he must have with him always a confidential 
 servant who would know what to do. There was the man 
 Mavis. He did not like the man much, but he was a good 
 servant and he knew the truth. Perhaps he would give up 
 the college. He telegraphed to Mavis. 
 
 Mavis came; he was willing to leave the college if it was 
 made worth his while; he was more than willing to act as 
 the keeper of a gentleman who wanted somebody to look 
 after him. Mavis proved a person of great resource; he 
 did not propose resistance or any other impossibilities; he 
 accepted the facts of the case; he looked for, and found, 
 to begin with, a cottage at a convenient distance from 
 town and quite in the country. On three occasions, be- 
 tween the months of June and the end of September, he 
 took his master down to this retreat. He also took with 
 him a large hamper containing ardent drinks of various 
 kinds. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 23 
 
 hi the intervals between these visits George found him- 
 self perfectly, absolutely free from the desire for drink. 
 He loathed the sight of whisky; he became a total ab- 
 stainer. In other respects he was the same as before — 
 perfectly strong and healthy both in mind and body. But 
 when the attack began he made no more attempt at resist- 
 ance than a man with neuralgia does to persuade himself 
 that there is no pain anywhere. 
 
 He fell into a profound melancholy. He now fully un- 
 derstood that the same disease which had killed his grand- 
 father had fallen upon himself. His career was stopped at 
 the outset. There would be no career possible for him. 
 How can a man do anything who has to go away into hid- 
 ing every month or so while the devil forces him to make 
 a hog of himself? 
 
 When the men came back to college in October it was 
 reported that Mavis had resigned. It was also said that 
 Atheling had taken his name off the books. Atheling? 
 What on earth did he do that for? Atheling? Of all the 
 men in the college the last they would let go. Atheling? 
 What did it mean? Despondency fell upon the whole col- 
 lege, insomuch that the freshmen were awed and hushed 
 and in the Hall there was no laughter and in the rooms 
 there were no stories told, and the college boat, for the want 
 of their No. 5, began, like Noah’s Ark, to creep slowly 
 upon the face of the waters. 
 
 George’s rooms were taken by a freshman named John 
 Carew — a, youth of promise who had obtained the first en- 
 trance scholarship —brought up a scholarship from St. 
 Paul’s, and was expected to become a Bell scholar. 
 
 This man took over the furniture of his predecessor at a 
 valuation. One morning, while he was searching in a 
 alrawer of his writing-table, he came upon a layer of old 
 stationery. Among the envelopes was a cabinet photo- 
 graph representing the face of a very good-looking young 
 man indeed. 
 
24 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ What is this?” said Carew, showing it to a man in 
 the room at the time. He was a third-year man. 
 
 Why , said he, this is a portrait of Atheling, who 
 was going to do such great things, only they have not come 
 off. No one knows why he went down or where he is now. 
 Cherchez la femme, perhaps. ” 
 
 Anyhow,” said Carew, “ he had a good face — an ad- 
 mirable face. One would not readily forget such a face as 
 that. I wish 1 had known him. A face that one could 
 not forget if one tried. ” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW ELINOR RECEIVED GEORGE’S DETERMINATION. 
 
 “ So, sir,” said Elinor, stepping across the lawn to meet 
 her lover, “ you have come at last.” 
 
 It was a warm and sunny afternoon, toward the end of 
 September. A broad lawn stretched in front of a goodly 
 country house, modern, perhaps too new; but the Thanets 
 are new people, as everybody knows. Yet not so very new, 
 and their novelty is gilded. Not people of to-day, but of 
 yesterday, or even the day before yesterday. It matters 
 very little in these days how the money is made, but it may- 
 be mentioned as a detail that the Thanet money was made 
 by Elinor’s grandfather in the good old days of railway 
 making, when the founder of the family engineered, con- 
 tracted, and constructed on the largest scale possible, with 
 results of a most satisfactory kind. Elinor herself, an only 
 child, might have been the daughter of a hundred belted 
 earls; but then our English girls, where they have got the 
 wherewithal, do in the second generation easily assume the 
 aristocratic manner and appearance. She was still quite 
 young, not more than eighteen; more womanly in figure 
 than most girls of that' age, and rather more serious in 
 countenance. This was perhaps due to her difficulties 
 with Latin prose, which still continued to cause her anx- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 25 
 
 iety. It might also be partly caused by the neglect of her 
 lover, who had not been to see her all the summer. 
 
 64 You have treated me so abominably, sir,” she said, 
 giving him both her hands, 44 that I had almost made up 
 my mind — ” 
 
 • 44 1 am so very sorry, Nell — I could not possibly come 
 before. I have been kept in town by all kinds of business 
 and — 99 
 
 44 Oh, business, indeed!” she laughed, incredulous. 
 44 You know, George, you never had any business in your 
 life. First, I thought you were going up for the Long. 
 Then you said you were going to France or somewhere. 
 Then I had that strange letter from you.” 
 
 44 Forget that letter, Nell. I was ill when 1 wrote it.” 
 
 44 1 have forgotten it, because you would not have writ- 
 ten it if you had been well. I tore it up. But, George, 
 you must have been very ill to write such a strange, ram- 
 bling letter — all about heredity and duty to posterity, and 
 1 know not what.” 
 
 44 1 had a feverish cold which made me light-headed for 
 a few hours. Forget that letter, Nellie. 1 wrote it when 
 1 was only half myself and full of queer fancies. ” 
 
 44 Oh, it is nothing. It is forgotten. Let me look at 
 you. George, you don't look at all well; whatever is the 
 matter with you?” 
 
 44 Nothing, Nell; nothing at all. What should there 
 be?” 
 
 44 Your face looks— what shall 1 say? — puffy, and your 
 eyes look anxious. What has happened?” she asked, 
 earnestly. 
 
 44 Nothing has happened, Nell, except that 1 was cer- 
 tainly ill for a few days. What should have happened?” 
 
 She shook her head. 44 Something,” she said. 44 Why, 
 1 found out from your letters that something was wrong. 
 There has been — I don’t know — a discordant note in them 
 for two or three months. Well, you will tell me — won't 
 
26 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 you, George? — if there is any trouble? How can we be 
 happy together unless we share all our troubles, whatever 
 they may be?” 
 
 “ Yes, Nell; yes, you are quite right. I will take all 
 your troubles on my own back and you shall have no part 
 of mine. Come, that is my idea of fair division.” 
 
 She shook her head. That would not do. 
 
 “Well, then,” said George, “let us talk about some- 
 thing else — about you, for instance. Tell me all that you 
 are doing. Who is here, to begin with?” 
 
 It matters nothing to us who was in the house. George 
 kept the talk on things indifferent until it was time to dress. 
 
 “1 must tell her,” he murmured, during that cere- 
 mony. “ 1 must tell her something — enough. This is to 
 be my last visit. I will tell her to-morrow morning.” 
 
 “Mamma dear,” said Elinor, on her way to dress, 
 “ there is something wrong with George.” 
 
 “ What should there be?” 
 
 “1 do not know. Something there is. Watch him 
 during dinner.” 
 
 No one else observed any change in him. Mr. Thanet 
 congratulated him on looking so well. A certain learned 
 physician, who was of the company, and an old friend, told 
 him that he ought to be the happiest man in the world — 
 meaning because he was young, strong, and lusty, rich, 
 and happy in his love. Those who were not old friends re- 
 garded with admiration this magnificent specimen of hu- 
 manity. If they were ladies they envied the lot of Elinor, 
 and if they were men they envied the lot of the man him- 
 self, fortunate in love, fortunate in gifts and graces, fort- 
 unate in birth, wealth, and understanding. What more 
 could Nature give him? She had given him in addition to 
 these inherited qualities a grandfather who drank himself 
 to death. 
 
 George had little conversation with Elinor during the 
 dinner. She observed that his hand shook a great deal; at 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 27 
 
 this she marveled. And she observed that he drank no 
 wine, a thing which now causes no astonishment. He 
 must have been very ill, she thought, when he wrote that 
 letter. That illness had not completely left him yet. It 
 altered the tone of his letters; it altered the look in [his 
 eyes. 
 
 46 My dear,” said her mother, after dinner, 64 you are 
 too anxious about George. He seems to be very well.” 
 
 44 No. He is not well. He is fidgety and nervous. I 
 dare say he will tell me about it to-morrow.” 
 
 44 1 hope you are pleased, George,” said Mrs. Thanet, 
 44 about our consent to the Newnham scheme. ” 
 
 44 If Elinor is pleased,” he replied, languidly, 44 of 
 course I am.” 
 
 44 But I want more than that from you, George. You 
 see, Elinor says that if she is to marry a man of intellect 
 she must herself be learned and taught to become his in- 
 tellectual companion if not his equal. I do not myself see 
 the necessity of understanding all your husband's pursuits, 
 but girls are taken with this new talk about equality. You 
 see — ” 
 
 44 1 think it is a very noble ambition on Elinor's part,” 
 he said, with a return to his old manner. 44 And I hope 
 that she will get the first-class that she aims at.” 
 
 George passed a most uncomfortable night. This was 
 inevitable, because he knew that certain things must be 
 said in the morning; certain things must be told which 
 would not be well received. He was not going to tell all 
 the things that had happened. Not all. He could not go 
 to the girl and say, 44 Nellie, the man you love is afflicted 
 with a dire and dreadful disease. He is assailed by a 
 friend who brings him a bottle and commands him to 
 drink. He is so weak and cowardly that he has yielded to 
 this devil without the least resistance. He has never re- 
 sisted him at all. He has never even attempted to resist 
 him. He has been prevented from coming here all the 
 
28 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 summer by one attack after the other; he is only here at 
 great risk of being found out between his attacks. He 
 has a man-servant whose only duty it is to watch for the 
 approach of the next attack and to take care of him while 
 it lasts. In plain language, your lover has become a con- 
 firmed drunkard in the short space of three months.” 
 Could he say all this to the girl? Could he write this to 
 her? Could he even say this to himself in so many words? 
 
 In the morning he declined to join the shooting-party 
 and remained at home in order to tell as much as he dared 
 — as much, in fact, as would put an end to his engage- 
 ment. He was going to commit a kind of suicide. Heav- 
 ens! if any one had told him six months agone that he 
 would of his own accord try to find out words strong 
 enough and cruel enough to break off his engagement! 
 
 “ Come into the library, George,”.said Elinor. “ You. 
 have something to tell me. We can talk quite freely 
 now. ” 
 
 This was her own study. A table in one of the windows 
 was covered with books and papers. She sat down in her 
 own chair before the table. 
 
 “Iam getting on very well, George. My coach is quite 
 satisfied with me. 1 have not yet told him of my am- 
 bitions, but he knows 1 am going to read for honors.” 
 
 “1 am very glad if it pleases you, Nell. What I have 
 to tell you will not please you so much, I think.” 
 
 He turned his head, afraid to meet her eyes. 
 
 “ What is it?” 
 
 He went to the open window and looked out. 
 
 “ Only — that we shall not be undergraduates together? 
 after all.” 
 
 “ George!” She sprung to her feet. “ Not under- 
 graduates together!” 
 
 “ I have made up my mind, in fact, that I would give 
 up reading for honors. 1 think the time may be more 
 profitably employed.” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 29 
 
 “ In what way? Why, you have always believed that a 
 first-class in honors is the best start a man can possibly 
 make. ” 
 
 6 6 1 certainly used to hold that belief. I do so no longer. 
 If you consider our statesmen,” he said, grandly — “our 
 leading statesmen — you will observe that hardly any of 
 them have -got a first-class. Now, 1 think that the study 
 of politics, history, perhaps modern languages — ” 
 
 “ But, George, this is quite a new departure.” 
 
 “ Quite a new departure. And, in short, I have already 
 taken my name off the .college books. I am not going 
 back to Cambridge at all.” 
 
 “Oh, but this is terrible! I can not understand it. 
 Oh, George, I am so sorry — I am so very sorry.” The 
 tears came into her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 “ It is done now,” he replied, doggedly. 
 
 “ But I don’t understand it,” she said. “ What does it 
 mean? W T hen I saw you last — in May was it, or in 
 April? not since then; a long while ago— you were full of 
 your work and of college matters. You were resolved on 
 getting into the first class. Nothing at all has happened 
 since. Yet, George ” — she laid her hand upon his arm — 
 “ something has happened. You are ill; you wrote an in- 
 coherent letter. Has that illness anything to do with it? 
 Are you still suffering from its effects? You are not your- 
 self; your hand shakes; your eyes are anxious, and they 
 are cold,” she added. 
 
 “ Nothing at all has happened, Nell. As for my ill- 
 ness, that was nothing. ” 
 
 “ Do you remember, George, years ago, when you 
 wanted to hide from me that ugly cut in your left arm, 
 how you persisted in saying that nothing had happened till 
 the blood ran down? Now, George, no more fibs and fic- 
 tions. Tell me straight what has come over you.” 
 
 “ There is nothing to tell, I assure you.” 
 
 “ Why, your looks belie you. Your eyes are guilty. 
 
30 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Come, tell me what it is? Have you done anything fool- 
 ish? Any young man might, though you would be the 
 last. 1 have heard of men being rusticated for foolish 
 things — making bonfires or something — but you could not 
 possibly go making bonfires.” 
 
 “ No; I have not been rusticated. 1 simply got tired of 
 reading. What is the good of a first-class to me? To 
 some poor devil who has got his way to make in the world 
 I dare say it helps more than a bit. But to me — ” 
 
 “ To you? Why, of all men in the world, George, you 
 have got your way to make. What signifies money? You 
 may have your wealth as one means— but the least worthy 
 — of making your way. Where are your ambitions?” * 
 
 “ 1 think they are all gone, Nell,” he replied, trying to 
 speak and look cheerfully. - 64 They are all gone into the 
 limbo of forgotten resolutions. I have ceased to think in 
 the old way.” 
 
 44 Gone! Your ambitions gone? Why, they are a part 
 and parcel of yourself. You have always taught me so. 
 Without ambition what is life? Who would desire to live 
 from day to day without work and without hope? They 
 are your own words, George. You have said them a 
 thousand times. And now you tell me that you are 
 changed.” 
 
 44 Yes, I am changed.” 
 
 44 Changed — in everything, George?” 
 
 He hesitated. He made no reply. 
 
 44 If you are so much changed,” she went on, 44 where is 
 the George to whom I am engaged?” 
 
 He hesitated still. Then he said, slowly and painfully: 
 44 I am quite changed. That is true. I don’t seem some- 
 how to care so much for the career which you and I have 
 so often sketched out and dreamed over. That is the 
 change in me. I have had enough of the university. It 
 is only a continuation of school after all. Let me be my 
 own master. I dare say that the old ambitions will re- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 31 
 
 turn. It is as you say — well, the — as 1 used to say, rather 
 a pity to sit down and do nothing all your life. It is like 
 creating a new vice to be handed down to your children. 
 Everything that we do or suffer, you know, is handed 
 down to our children. We may make them gouty or 
 rheumatic or consumptive. We may make them lazy or 
 industrious; we make them drunkards if we choose.” 
 
 44 Well, yes; we can do all these fine things, 1 dare say. 
 You said something like this in your mad letter. But, my 
 dear George, some ancestor of yours must have been a 
 preacher of moral commonplace and you have only just 
 found it out. Seriously, what does it all mean? Why do 
 you go off on heredity? That has nothing to do with the 
 loss of your ambitions and the surrender of your career.” 
 
 66 The old ambitions will return, perhaps. On the other 
 hand perhaps they will not. Why, Nell, most young men 
 who have means are content to sit down and enjoy life 
 their own way. I don't intend to do nothing. I shall 
 carry on work of some kind. 1 dare say I shall find my 
 own line some day, and then you know 1 can work at it if 
 I feel so inclined.” But he looked as if work no longer 
 interested him. 
 
 66 This is all new to me,” said the girl. 66 1 can not tell 
 what has worked this change.” 
 
 44 What is it worth — that career of which we talked so 
 much? Wrangling and brawling in an unmannerly House 
 of Commons; personal abuse in the papers; servitude to a 
 party; the surrender of conscience and honor — ” 
 
 66 All this is new,” the girl repeated; 64 not a word to 
 prepare me for this change.” 
 
 44 You will agree with me,” he went on, speaking in a 
 constrained and harsh voice, 44 when you think things over. 
 We will give up all the foolish ambitions and let the world 
 take care of itself. What is the world to us? What has 
 the world done for us? Why should we do anything for 
 the world?” 
 
- : 
 
 3 2 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Yet a faltering in his voice. It was as if the new man 
 had no belief in himself. Strange — what had come over 
 George? The girl was bewildered. 
 
 “ 1 do not understand,” she said again. 
 
 66 Give up your own idle dreams, Nell. What does it 
 matter whether you get a first-class or not? Think no 
 more about these trifles. Let us enjoy the world. We 
 are young. The world belongs to the rich and to the 
 young. Let us enjoy the world.” 
 
 Again it was as if he did not believe his own words. 
 There was no ring of conviction in them. George was 
 quite — quite changed. At any rate, whatever he used to 
 say he used to believe. The girl blushed a rosy red. It 
 was because she was forming a most portentous resolution. 
 
 ‘‘If you have abandoned your ambitions,” she said, 
 slowly, “ you have abandoned yourself. You tell me that 
 nothing has happened. Why, 1 have lost my old friend — 
 my old companion — my ” — her voice shook— “ my lover!” 
 
 “ No, Nellie, not that.” Again no sincerity. His face 
 was unmoved. Nay, she even thought that there was a 
 look of relief in his eyes as if he was actually pleased at his 
 own dismissal. 
 
 “ He is gone,” she went on. “ Well, when he returns 
 to himself he will perhaps come to see me again. Till 
 then I do not desire to see him or any substitute of him or 
 any person parading under his name. Do you understand 
 — pretender?” 
 
 “I believe I understand.” 
 
 “ Tell the real George that 1 am still his. I belong to 
 him whether he returns or whether he does not until he 
 himself sends me a release.” 
 
 “ May not I give you release?” 
 
 “ Certainly not, sir. You are not George Atheling. 1 
 must hear it from my old companion, from my lover, from 
 himself.” 
 
 She turned and walked out of the library with a dignity 
 
THE DEM OK I AC. 
 
 33 
 
 beyond her years. George made no effort, even by gesture 
 or by word, to stop her. 
 
 “ It was inevitable,” he said, when the door closed be- 
 hind her; 44 it was inevitable.” He sighed; unmanly tears 
 filled his eyes. 44 1 had to do it. I have been cruel, cold, 
 lying, but it had to be done. I am a brute and a cad, but 
 it was forced upon me. Poor child, it’s a dreadful blow 
 to her. But it had to be done some time — the sooner the 
 better. She is only eighteen and she will get over it in 
 
 time. She will forget me and fall in love with — ” He 
 stamped his foot and cursed that unknown lover of his im- 
 agination. 44 Well, all is gone now — freedom, honor, am- 
 bition, love — nothing left but money to buy the stuff that 
 is killing me and strength to prolong the agony, unless I 
 end it— yes, yes, end it on the voluntary principle.” 
 
 He went out and sought the post-office, whence he dis- 
 patched a telegram to his servant, the faithful Mavis. 
 
 At luncheon-time Elinor had a headache and remained 
 in her own room. A telegram arrived for Mr. Atheling. 
 
 44 Fortunate,” he said, 44 that 1 was not out shooting. 
 I must return to London immediately.” 
 
 44 Immediately,” said Mrs. Thanet. “But you will 
 come back as soon as you can?” 
 
 44 As soon as I can,” George repeated, mechanically. 
 44 And now I have only just time to catch the half past 
 two train if 1 go at once.” 
 
 Upstairs Elinor sat alone, as miserable as a girl under 
 these sad circumstances can expect; to be. She had lost 
 her lover and her old familiar friend. 
 
 She was a clear-headed girl, and under no illusions. She 
 perceived that for some reason or other he wished to break 
 off the engagement. His words, his looks, his manner, all 
 showed that he desired to be free. Well — she had set him 
 free. She expected now that he would write her a letter 
 of release. 
 
 She told her mother that George had altered his views 
 2 
 
34 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 of life, and in a way so important that for the present there 
 must be no further talk about him. Meantime, she said 
 that unless George released her she was still bound to him. 
 And she was as miserable as a girl under such circum- 
 stances can expect to be. But the Latin prose which she 
 still continued diverted her thoughts, and the near pros- 
 pect of Newnham sustained her. She needed both support 
 and diversion, because George made no sign and sent her 
 no release. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE PHYSICIAN. 
 
 44 Yes,” said the physician — the idiomatic 64 yes ” which 
 does not mean assent or promise or anything of that kind, 
 but encourages the other man to continue. 
 
 The other man was George. He was doing what he 
 ought to have done at the very outset — consulting a man 
 of science, a specialist in nervous disorders. 
 
 44 Well, 1 have come to tell you the facts in confidence.” 
 
 44 Nonsense,” said the physician. 44 Everybody tells me 
 in confidence. I am a father confessor in general. This 
 room is a confessional.” 
 
 “Of course, 1 beg your pardon. 1 thought I should 
 like to see somebody, though I doubt whether any one can 
 help me.” 
 
 “ Go on, young gentleman — again — let us hear the 
 facts. You are suffering from drink craving, 1 gather.” 
 
 George narrated the whole case. Let us dq him justice. 
 He told everything exactly. He concealed nothing; not 
 his own cowardly want of will; not his reliance on the 
 secrecy of his servant; nothing. He sat in the chair of 
 suspense, the chair of anxiety, the chair of the patient; he 
 made; plenary confession. 
 
 “You have told me everything?” said the physician. 
 
 44 Everything. Can you give me any hope?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 35 
 
 The physician was old. He looked with pity on this 
 young man. 6 6 There is always/* he said, benevolently, 
 “ hope— for the patient/* 
 
 “ Not always, I suppose, for the physician.** 
 
 “For the physician/* the man of science repeated, 
 “ not always. For the patient always. Hope, young gen- 
 tleman, is a great medicine.** 
 
 “ Tell me the worst, doctor.** 
 
 The patient was at his lowest point of despondency. 
 He reached, as you will hear, a lower point of submission, 
 but never a lower point of despondency. It was after his 
 interview with Elinor. He had begun to realize the dreari- 
 ness of life when there is nothing to work for, nothing to 
 hope. What is the use of reading or work of any kind 
 when one has been ordered at the age of twenty-one to re- 
 tire into obscurity, sit down and take no more part in any- 
 thing? 
 
 “ The worst? You know it. As for hope, it depends 
 upon yourself. Your case is serious. Yet you are young, 
 and you should be brave. It has now gone on for some 
 time, and has assumed already an apparent mastery. Yet, 
 again, you are young and you should be courageous. It is 
 an hereditary vitium — your grandfather, you tell me — and 
 it certainly broke out without the least warning, just as 
 one observes in asthma and other nervous disorders. It is 
 a very hereditary thing. Yes, you are seized with an irre- 
 sistible craving for drink.** 
 
 “ Irresistible as the flood of Niagara.** 
 
 “You seem to have no power of resistance. You are 
 driven like a sheep.** 
 
 “ Like a silly sheep.** 
 
 “You fall to drinking furiously — vehemently. You 
 drink enormous quantities of the strongest spirits; you 
 drink enough to kill you at ordinary times. In a day or 
 two the fit passes. Yet, all this time your will is par- 
 alyzed.** 
 
86 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 The mind refuses to work. It is possession.” 
 
 44 Call it so if you please.” 
 
 44 1 can not think but the brain goes on working of its 
 own accord. I think a madman's brain may work in the 
 same manner. ” 
 
 44 Undoubtedly.” 
 
 6 6 It presents one with a never-ending procession of gob- 
 lins; images dance and caper — anything but walk — before 
 my eyes; they are creatures that have no shape or form 
 that one ever saw; they have heads of animals; they have 
 human faces which mock and jeer; they have eyes which 
 threaten and haunt. I hear voices in unknown tongues, 
 but they are hostile voices. Doctor, I can not explain to 
 you half the horrors which attend the close of one of these 
 attacks. ” 
 
 66 The common sort call them simply the horrors.” 
 
 44 Between the attacks, as at this moment, I feel no de- 
 sire for drink at all. 1 loathe it for the memory of these 
 sufferings. When the attack begins the loathing is turned 
 into craving. ” 
 
 44 You can always keep a fire alight by feeding it.” 
 
 44 I think of nothing but to satisfy the craving.” 
 
 44 Have your friends advised you?” 
 
 44 No one knows anything about it. No one suspects. 
 I have left Cambridge in order not to be found out. My 
 gyp, who knows, I first silenced by a bribe and have since 
 taken into my service. He never leaves me. ” 
 
 44 Ah!” The physician looked dubious. 44 A constant 
 attendant is useful in certain cases. But he should be a 
 judicious person, acting under instructions, else — ” 
 
 44 1 have taken chambers in town. None of my friends 
 know my address — I go nowhere. For greater security I 
 have a cottage not far from London in a lonely spot where 
 I take refuge whenever I have warning. My man, Mavis, 
 knows the symptoms by this time. He watches for them 
 like a cat for a mouse. At the first appearance of the 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 37 
 
 symptoms he hurries me off to my cottage. With no one 
 in the place except ourselves I have it out.” 
 
 44 This useful attendant takes good care that the stuff 
 shall be in readiness, I suppose. ” 
 
 44 Oh, yes — and plenty of it. ” 
 
 44 May I ask if the good man drinks with you in a 
 friendly way?” 
 
 George changed color. 
 
 “On such occasions,” he said, 46 what can it matter? 
 At all other times he is a respectful and obedient servant. 
 At the cottage he is— what you please — a brother tosspot.” 
 44 Craving may be infectious. Young gentleman, have 
 you never even tried to fight against it?” 
 
 44 Fight against it? Why, the thing is a devil! Fight 
 against it? You can't fight a devil. When first he flew 
 at my throat I thought it was the devil. Now I am cer- 
 tain of it. You may try to fight a devil if you like, but 
 he will best you, and that very soon. ” 
 
 44 There used to be a few old-fashioned ideas on that 
 subject,” said the physician, 44 which 1 would recommend 
 you to consider. The phraseology is antiquated, but you 
 could, perhaps, clothe them anew.” 
 
 44 Yes, it is easy for you to talk. One might have ex- 
 pected this advice. But you never had such a devil to 
 fight — you never had such a devil.” 
 
 The physician, who was old and experienced, shook his 
 head as one who could tell very good stories about the 
 devil and of man's duels with him on occasion and at 
 proper times. 
 
 44 I’m quite sure you never knew such a devil. Why, 
 this one draws and drags a man With ropes; he parches his 
 throat and sets it on fire; he makes him gasp and catch 
 his breath. When he has become like one lost in a hot 
 and sandy desert he gives him ” — the young man's face 
 and gestures showed that it was his own experience that he 
 was describing — 4 4 he gives him,” he gasped and drew a 
 
38 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 long breath, “ a bottle— ah! — a heavenly, beautiful bottle 
 — ah! — filled full — it can’t be too full — ah! — with brandy, 
 whisky — anything, and he bids him drink and be happy. 
 Fight such a devil as that? Doctor, I don’t believe that 
 anybody ever did fight him. You know about Christian’s 
 famous fight in the valley — well, if Apollyon had been 
 armed with a fiery furnace to ram down Christian’s throat 
 and a bottle to give him afterward, Apollyon would have 
 won. When he is away 1 feel strong. I am resolved to 
 fight him. I am quite resolute and determined. When 
 he comes 1 let my weapons fall — shield and lance and 
 sword — I am a prisoner. ” 
 
 He sunk back in his chair, despairing. 
 
 “We should be exorcised by bell, book, and candle,” 
 said the physician. “ In the days of faith that would have 
 been practicable. Yes, in the old days you would have 
 been healed by faith. The devil would have been driven 
 out of you. Then you would have gone home calm and 
 easy. When the next attack came you would have said, 
 ‘ This is not the old thing. The devil has been driven 
 out. This is nothing to trouble me, only a cold in the 
 head, a touch of fever, a little sore throat. ’ There was 
 reason in the method of the priests. It worked well. 
 They knew what they were about. You believe, and the 
 devil is driven away. You do not believe, and he stays.” 
 
 “ Well, since 1 do not believe.” 
 
 “ The case is less simple by reason of your unbelief. 
 You have no fight left in you, that is plain. Nerve and 
 will are broken. You can make no resistance. What 
 should have been beaten back as a suggestion of evil comes 
 in the shape of a lord and master.” 
 
 “It does.” 
 
 “ Then you must find some one to fight the devil for 
 you. Your factotum — your brother tosspot, your boon 
 companion, this ancient gyp — can he fight him for you?” 
 
 “ Certainly not. He is paid to keep me out of harm 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 39 
 
 and beyond the reach of discovery. That is all he can do. 
 Once he refused to bring me more. He won't do that 
 again." 
 
 “ Some one else, then." 
 
 The young man rose from his chair. 66 Look at me, 
 doctor," he said, “do I look like a man easy to tackle? 
 •Remember that if any one comes to fight the devil for me 
 he will have to fight the devil and me as well, both to- 
 gether, for the devil is inside of me then, and I have the 
 strength of twenty." 
 
 You have seen that this young man was no puny creat- 
 ure, but quite the reverse. We are accustomed to think 
 that persons afflicted with such a dreadful infirmity are 
 generally wretched creatures of weak frame and feeble 
 heads — what the London slang calls half naked — the chil- 
 dren of rickety parents. Physicians know better. This 
 disease singles out the strongest and best as well as the 
 weakest and worst. It is as impartial as the sunshine, it 
 is as free from favoritism as rheumatism, gout, asthma or 
 any other disease by which mankind is plagued because of 
 ignorance. It drags down, slowly and swiftly, the clearest 
 intellect; it humbles the finest scholar; it ruins the most 
 brilliant wit; it corrupts the brain of the noblest poet; it 
 knows no respect for crowned heads and shows no pity for 
 paupers. Consider this case — this splendid young man, 
 this stalwart frame, this active brain, this masterpiece of 
 nature. No pity; ruthless destruction of what would have 
 been a noble life, ruin of the fairest prospects. No pity. 
 None. And all because men are so ignorant that they can 
 not avert hereditary disease — so ignorant that they go on 
 creating hereditary disease. Ignorance, my brothers, igno- 
 rance it is which fills our hospitals and our prisons, that 
 cuts short our lives and plagues with grievous pains and 
 sufferings — ignorance, nothing more. 
 
 “ You look so big and so strong, young man, that I can 
 not believe you to be such an arrant coward." 
 
40 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 George flushed up, but he restrained himself. 
 
 “A coward / 9 repeated the physician. “Say that to 
 yourself every time you rush to the whisky bottle. A cow- 
 ard. You do well to take your name off the college books 
 and break off your engagement. You are not fit to asso- 
 ciate with gentlemen or to marry a gentlewoman. ” 
 
 “ It is true,” George murmured. “ It is quite true.” 
 
 “ Some poor creatures like yourself who have not the 
 resolution to bear any pain, however fleeting, seek refuge 
 in an asylum. Here they may get looked after and kept 
 from drink. You would not, you would bribe the serv- 
 ants; you are too rich for the honesty of any servants. 
 There is, however, one thing that you might do. Your 
 only chance, 1 believe, unless you can muster up courage, 
 is to be placed in some position where drink is absolutely 
 unattainable. For instance, a temperance ship, where no 
 drink is carried on board at all. There are such ships. 
 You might take a voyage to New Zealand and back in 
 such a ship.” 
 
 The young man shook his head. 
 
 “ Consider. When the attack seized you it would neces- 
 sarily spend itself in vain because there would be nothing 
 to gratify and feed the craving. The second attack would 
 be shorter and would entail less suffering. So with the 
 third — ” 
 
 “ Doctor, it would be of no use. There would certainly 
 be drink somewhere on board and I should get it. ” 
 
 “Again, consider the plan. You are rich. You can 
 afford to have a guardian, or keeper. I will find you a 
 young medical man who would never leave you.” 
 
 ‘ Doctor,” the young man sprung to his feet with the 
 appearance of tremendous resolution, “ I tell you what 1 
 will do. This will be ever so much better than going as a 
 guarded passenger, a mark of scorn and contempt. I am 
 rich. I would hire or buy a boat for myself and 1 will sail 
 roun<£ the world. Not a drop of drink of any kind shall 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 41 
 
 be put on board that boat. I will take your young medico 
 with me. 1 will only land between the attacks, when I 
 can safely venture. Will that satisfy you?” 
 
 44 Clearly, if there is no drink to be had, it will be of no 
 use craving for it. Well- — and you will give over craving 
 for it if you really and honestly carry-out this plan — ” 
 
 44 Eeally and honestly I will. 1 swear 1 will, whatever 
 it costs me. ” 
 
 46 Very good, indeed. Nothing could be better. Mean- 
 time leave that man of yours at home — ” 
 
 44 I can hardly do that. Mavis is necessary to me. He 
 knows exactly what I want — apart, I mean — from the 
 times of — ” 
 
 44 Well, if, as I say, you are strong enough to insist on 
 there being no drink on board the ship at all — 99 
 
 44 1 am strong enough for that, at any rate, when the 
 time comes, doctor— you must let that young medical man 
 be strong — mind — strong. For I shall have the strength 
 of a madman.” 
 
 44 He shall be,” said the physician, 44 as strong as nat- 
 ure and athletics can make him. But be resolute — let 
 nothing enter the ship — neither spirits nor wine nor beer.” 
 44 Ulysses stuffed the ears of the sailors,” said the young 
 man, thoughtfully, 44 with wax, so that they should not 
 hear the song of the sirens, and then the sailors tied 
 Ulysses to the mast, so that he heard, but could not obey. 
 If they will tie me with iron chains to the mainmast — 
 nothing short of iron chains will do — 99 
 
 44 But there will be no drink on board. Remember that 
 the songs of the sirens will be only a mockery to you. 
 They may invite you to drink, but they will give you noth- 
 ing to drink . 99 + 
 
 44 You don't know this devil of mine. He is sure to 
 bring some on board, and if it is there I must get it some- 
 how. Remember, doctor, my guardian must never leave 
 me alone, -He must bind me and tie me down on deck 
 
42 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 and set watch over me clay and night. He must not trust 
 any one — mind, no one — not the captain, whoever he may 
 be, nor the steward, nor my own man, even. He must 
 never cease watching.” 
 
 “I will give him the strictest instructions. You are 
 right to mistrust yourself. When will your preparations 
 be completed?” 
 
 “ 1 don't know. I dare say it will prove of no use,” he 
 said, despondingly. “ However, it shall be tried. Mavis 
 — my man — shall set to work at once, doctor. 1 will 
 really try your experiment, but I doubt — I doubt. You 
 don't know this devil of mine. He is the most crafty, the 
 most subtle, the most determined devil you ever heard 
 of.” He laughed, but not mirthfully. 
 
 “ He has got to do with a man who has lost his nerve 
 and his will,” said the physician. 
 
 “ Find me the nerve and the will of somebody else then; 
 but I doubt — I doubt. My devil is too cunning.” 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 OF THE VOYAGE. 
 
 George went home. The more he thought of this pro- 
 jected voyage the more it pleased his imagination. When 
 there was no drink to be had there could be no craving. 
 It would be senseless. As well long for the luxuries of the 
 club from the day-room of a work-house. 
 
 First, however, he would make that confession to Eli- 
 nor. She should not think that he had deliberately set 
 himself to wound and pain her into sending him away. 
 He wrote: 
 
 6C My dear Nellie, — You told me on Monday to re- 
 turn to you when I could go back to you in the guise and 
 semblance of your old friend. I denied at the time your 
 charge that something must have happened. I will tell 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 43 
 
 you plainly what has happened. 1 have become in four 
 months one of those unhappy men whom I was wont to 
 despise — called confirmed drunkards. 1 kept from you all 
 the summer, hoping that the habit would pass away. It 
 has not passed away. It is, on the contrary, stronger than 
 ever, and now I believe that I shall be a slave for life. If 
 it is any excuse, I might plead that the vice is hereditary, 
 but the physician whom 1 have consulted will not allow 
 that this is an excuse. The real fault is my own disgrace- 
 ful cowardice. I went to you the other day resolved upon 
 telling you the exact truth. I could not. Therefore 1 in- 
 sulted and pained you beyond endurance. You said that 
 you would continue to regard yourself as engaged to me 
 until 1 gave you release. Take your release. You are 
 free. Forget me as soon as you can and do not blame me 
 more than you can help. 
 
 66 1 am going to try the effect of a long voyage. If that 
 succeeds — which I doubt — 1 will visit you on my return as 
 an old friend, no longer a lover. If it does not succeed 1 
 shall never write to you or see you again. 
 
 “ George Humphrey Atheling. " 
 
 He wrote this letter, folded it, stamped it, and left it on 
 his table to be posted. Finding it there two or three hours 
 later, and remembering that his servant was gone out and 
 might be gone out all day, he dropped it into the breast- 
 pocket of an overcoat. 
 
 There it lay while the writer of it was traveling round 
 about the world and afterward — all unregarded and for- 
 gotten. 
 
 So poor Elinor never got her release at all. 
 
 This done he opened his biggest atlas at the map of the 
 world — nothing less than that would do — and began to 
 consider the course he should steer. There's something 
 exciting about a voyage round the world, though so many 
 undertake it every year and seem to think little of it. It 
 
44 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 no longer takes the old fashioned three years. But in a 
 yacht of your own, which does not race from point to 
 point, you may still spend a good deal of time in going 
 round the world. It would cost him a great deal, no doubt, 
 still if the object was gained! No drink to be got on board 
 the ship. Splendid! Like going into action with your 
 colors nailed to the mast, or like defending a beleaguered 
 city without so much as a white pocket-handkerchief 
 to fly. 
 
 What kind of a ship should he want? A sailing yacht 
 for choice. But one would not wish to be becalmed in the 
 doldrums or to be cast nway on a lee shore. An auxiliary 
 screw; that was the thing. When he had got a ship he 
 must find a master to navigate her. How does one look 
 for masters? It is a very important thing to find a good 
 master. He must be a capabie person; skilled in his call- 
 ing, accustomed to command men; a sober man himself, 
 even a total abstainer; a man of good temper; a genial 
 man, cheerful and jocund, able to tell a good story. It 
 would be very difficult to find such a master. Then there 
 was the crew. Where does one gather a crew? This must 
 be a picked crew. Great care must be taken in finding 
 such a crew. Again, the provisions for so long a voyage. 
 No strong drink, of course; but every other kind of provis- 
 ion. There must be immense quantities of provisions for 
 so long a voyage. Who thinks of everything? Would the 
 ship hold all that he wanted for so long a voyage? One 
 might as well go to the army and navy stores and order en 
 Uoc everything they have got in stock. Except the 
 drink, of course. No drink on board this ship. No 
 drink. Certainly no drink at all. 
 
 While he was thinking of these things his servant. 
 Mavis, the ex-gyp, opened the door softly and came in. 
 
 “ 1 beg your pardon, sir/ 5 he said, standing beside his 
 master, “ may I ask what the doctor said?” 
 
 “ Oh, is that you. Mavis? I did not hear you come in. 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 45 
 
 Yes. The doctor says that the only way out of it is to 
 fight the. thing.” 
 
 Mavis coughed slightly, and the ghost of a smile played 
 upon his lips. 
 
 “To fight the thing, Mavis,” George repeated, reso- 
 lutely. 
 
 “ Very good, sir,” said Mavis. 
 
 “ As for giving in at once — making off to the cottage, 
 surrendering without the firing of a shot — hauling down 
 your colors — he's dead against it. Rank cowardice, that 
 is.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” Mavis smiled again. 
 
 “ There are two ways open. I may go into a home, 
 which is always dangerous, because people may be bribed. 
 I believe you would even climb upon the roof and lower 
 the bottles down the chimney if you knew I was in 
 trouble.” 
 
 “T would, sir,” said Mavis, loyally. 
 
 “ Or 1 might go for a long voyage on board a ship where 
 there was no drink — not a drop of drink on board.” 
 
 “ Then you would be quite safe, sir.” 
 
 “ Quite safe.” 
 
 “ To go mad or throw yourself overboard.” 
 
 “Not at all. Mavis. I am going to take with me a 
 young medical man, a strapping big fellow, to look after 
 me. After the first attack is met there will be less 
 trouble, you see, with the second, still less with the third, 
 and so on to the end.” 
 
 “ Very good, sir,” said Mavis. 
 
 “ Yes, 1 have made up my mind. 1 will hire a steam 
 yacht big enough for the voyage, and I will sail all around 
 the world — without one single drop of drink on board. 
 You understand that. Mavis?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir. Without one drop of drink on board.” 
 
 “ If that won't set me right again nothing will.” 
 
 “ Nothing will,” echoed his servant. 
 
46 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Very good, then. Do you go at once — as soon as you 
 can — let us lose no time — to the shop where they keep 
 ships on sale or hire. I suppose it is somewhere down the 
 river. Find me one. Get a good one while you are about 
 it. Cheaper, 1 should say, to hire than to buy, and less 
 on our minds in case of her capsizing or foundering on the 
 ocean/ ’ 
 
 “ Very good, sir. I will go this very morning.” 
 
 “ Find out what the ship will cost and — and — all about 
 her. Be careful about her age. I know how to tell the 
 age of a horse, but as for that of a ship 1 can't advise. 
 Take counsel. She must be big enough to cross the At- 
 lantic, in fact, to sail all round the earthly ball. You will 
 then find out other shops where they keep captains, stew- 
 ards, ships' crews and so forth, and learn how much it will 
 take to engage them. You will next find out how much 
 it will cost to victual the ship and who undertakes this 
 kind of business. But mind, captain and crew must be all 
 temperance men; there is not to be one single drop of 
 drink — mind — not one single drop of drink put on board 
 on any pretext whatever. You yourself have got to be a 
 total abstainer for the whole voyage.'' 
 
 “I understand, sir. No drink. Are we likely,” he 
 asked, quietly, but his master understood, “ ever to be far 
 from the nearest port where they sell drink — in case.” 
 “We may be weeks from such a port.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Mavis, smiling, unseen by his master. 
 
 “ No drink on board,” George repeated. “ We are 
 going on a temperance voyage. Nobody on board is to 
 have any drink at all. Coffee instead of rum — no drink,” 
 Somehow the force of his order seemed weakened by its 
 repetition. 
 
 “Very good, sir,” said Mavis. “As you please to 
 direct. I beg your pardon, sir,” he added, “ but — if there 
 is to be no drink — single-handed 1 could not — ” 
 
 “ Didn't I tell you? There will be a medical man on 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 47 
 
 board. Single-handed you could not tackle the case. 
 There will be a devil of a fight when the time comes. 
 Mavis.” 
 
 46 1 expect there will, sir.” 
 
 44 Between us we shall floor the devil. Once he is floored 
 — well, he is floored, 1 believe.” He rubbed his hands 
 hopefully. 
 
 44 Yes, sir, so 1 believe,” said Mavis. 44 Once floored.” 
 44 As he must be when there is no drink. Hark ye. 
 Mavis. There is to be a determined effort. I’ve got to 
 cure myself now or never. Bring me home with a good 
 record and 1 will give you two hundred pounds. Make a 
 note of that. Two hundred pounds. It shall be worth 
 your while to make the job complete.” 
 
 44 Thank you, sir,” said the man. 44 1 will do my best 
 to make the job complete. ” As he was unseen by his 
 master he grinned. 44 Make it complete once for all,” he 
 repeated. 
 
 44 That’s understood, then. In case of accident, 1 shall 
 leave provision in my will to that effect. And now, Mavis, 
 as there is no time to be lost, you had better go away and 
 look after that ship at once.” 
 
 44 A temperance ship,” said Mavis. “Owners, pas- 
 sengers, captain, officers and crew all temperance men — 
 men who have taken the pledge — Good Templars and 
 such.” 
 
 44 That’s the order.” 
 
 44 And not a drop of drink on board?” 
 
 44 Not a single drop,” said the master. 44 None to be 
 put on board at the beginning. None to be taken on 
 board at any port. ” 
 
 44 Very good, sir. I will make this job complete.” 
 
 He went out, and on the stairs he grinned again. 
 44 Complete,” he repeated. 44 If he is a servant now, he 
 shall be a slave before he comes back. Complete?” 
 
 44 Yes, 1 warrant the completeness of this job.” 
 
48 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Mavis was really a most excellent servant. There was 
 nothing which he could not be trusted to carry through. 
 He disappeared daily for a certain period of time and then 
 informed his master that he had arranged everything sub- 
 ject to his approval. There was a lovely steamer capable 
 of riding through any conceivable seas, almost new, proved, 
 completely provided, and ready to take in coal at once. 
 She was of seven hundred tons, and had already made two 
 voyages. 
 
 George went down to Gravesend where she was lying. 
 On board he found the master mariner whom Mavis pro- 
 posed to engage as captain. A weather-beaten old salt he 
 was, with a grizzled beard, a clear, blue eye, and a face of 
 the most resolute honesty that one had ever seen. His 
 credentials were admirable; he had, sailed over every sea 
 and knew every port. He was fifty-five years of age and 
 had been a sailor since he was ten. 
 
 46 1 understand, sir,” said this excellent old sea rover, 
 44 that you mean this to be a very temperance ship.” 
 
 44 1 mean more than that. I mean that it is to be a 
 ship without such a thing as a bottle of drink of any kind 
 on board. ” 
 
 44 Very good, sir. So Mr. Mavis told me. As for ship- 
 ping the drink, that’s the steward’s business. Mine is not 
 to let the crew have any. For my part,” he said, looking 
 more honest than words can express, 44 1 don't know the 
 taste of rum, whisky, gin or beer — strong drink never 
 passed these lips yet. ” 
 
 44 Indeed,” said George. 44 Then in that respect you 
 are the very man I want. ” 
 
 Down below he found waiting for him the man whom 
 Mavis proposed to engage as head steward, who would be 
 purser as well and responsible for all the ship’s stores and 
 provisions. 
 
 This officer had served in the Orient Line. Ill-health 
 alone had caused him to leave this service. He too had 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 49 
 
 the best of credentials. His manner was soft and sleek — 
 rather like that of Mavis. 
 
 “A temperance voyage, I learn, sir,”.Iie said. “ I’ve 
 been a temperance man myself — a Good Templar — for 
 twenty-five years. The crew won’t expect any drink. As 
 for yourself and your friends — ” 
 
 “We are all going to be total abstainers. This is to be 
 the first condition of engagement.” 
 
 “Very good, sir. Not a drop of drink shall come on 
 board except by your orders.” 
 
 All this was very satisfactory. George examined the 
 cabins and the saloon, and went down into the engine- 
 room. Everything was spick and span, newly painted and 
 fitted. The captain" laid out some charts on the table. 
 They were going, he said, to sail on a most lovely voyage. 
 First, total abstinence the whole time— a thing he put first 
 of all. Next, for the course of the ship. He purposed to 
 make for the Azores, St. Helena and the Cape, next for 
 Mauritius, Point de Galles, Singapore and Hong Kong. 
 After that the Pacific Islands would occupy them a whole 
 year if the chief chose, and so on — and so on. Nothing so 
 eloquent as the fat forefinger of a skipper traveling slowly 
 across a great chart pointing to unknown lands and strange 
 places. 
 
 As this forefinger showed the way, George, in imagina- 
 tion, saw himself free of his burden. There could be no 
 craving where there was no drink to be procured. It 
 would be a short fever quickly spent. He engaged the 
 skipper, he engaged the chief steward, he authorized the 
 engagement of a temperance crew, and the victualing of 
 the ship for a temperance voyage. 
 
 Next for the medical man. The physician was better 
 than his word. “ I have sent you,” he said, “ two instead 
 of one. This is because of your doubt, which has made 
 me doubt. Perhaps there may be drink on board after all. 
 In that case it will require at least two men to keep you 
 
50 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 from it, because you are so big and strong. I therefore 
 send two young fellows highly recommended. I advise 
 you to take them both.” 
 
 George engaged them on the spot. They were two 
 young giants, each as big as himself, capable between 
 them of fighting their patient and his devil combined. He 
 found that they understood exactly what was wanted. 
 They were not to trust in the giving of an order, but to 
 look to its execution; to watch that no drink, if they could 
 prevent it, was brought on board, and to take care that in 
 any case none was exhibited in the presence of the chief. 
 Especially they were to be on watch when the ship was in 
 port. 
 
 In fact, they were zealous, intelligent young men; they 
 understood that this was a case involving important scien- 
 tific issues; they saw that distinction, pleasure, and profit 
 might all be derived from the voyage, and they embarked 
 with light hearts. 
 
 Finally, one fine morning in the month of November 
 the steamer “ Good Intent ” dropped down stream off 
 Gravesend bound for all round the world. On board that 
 ship was a man afflicted with a disease which no medicine 
 can touch; he was to be cured by the absence of the thing 
 that feeds the disease and that the disease constantly 
 craves. 
 
 One is not writing the log of the “ Good Intent.” 
 Suffice it to say that the ship did actually complete the 
 circumnavigation of the globe and brought back the com- 
 pany safe arid sound to port. What they saw, what they 
 discovered, what remarks they made, are they not written 
 in the Book of the Chronicles? 
 
 About a year and a half after the dispatch of this inter- 
 esting scientific voyage two bronzed and weather-beaten 
 young men called upon the learned physician. They were 
 both big and strong men, good looking, too, but their 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 51 
 
 faces were overcast A cloud, as of anxiety, sat upon 
 
 them. 
 
 46 You have forgotten us,” said one of them. 44 We are 
 the two men you sent from St. George's to attend Mr. 
 Atheling on his voyage.” 
 
 44 Yes, yes; I remember now. And how are you? And 
 how did you get on?” 
 
 44 We are very well, and we got on very well.” 
 
 44 It was a voyage which promised to be very interest- 
 ing.” 
 
 44 It has been deeply interesting,” replied the first 
 speaker. 
 
 44 Scientifically of the highest importance,” said the 
 other young man. 
 
 44 Ah, I am glad to hear it. First, was it successful? I 
 have often thought about the case — obstinate, hereditary, 
 treacherous, most difficult. ” 
 
 44 From your point of view — no.” 
 
 44 From ours,” said the other young man, 44 most suc- 
 cessful — m<*st important.” 
 
 44 Where is your patient? And is he cured?” 
 
 44 He is at his own chambers. And at this moment he 
 is drunk.” 
 
 44 Drunk? Then — but you will explain?” 
 
 44 Willingly. He is drunk now with whisky. On board 
 he got drunk in the absence of whisky. ” 
 
 44 Which leads us to one great discovery,” said the 
 second young man. 
 
 44 1 dare say 1 shall understand presently,” said the 
 physician. 
 
 44 We went out charged specially to keep him from 
 drink and to watch him whenever he had an attack.” 
 
 44 You did. You were intrusted with a very important 
 mission. You had a great chance before you. Here was 
 a man liable to attacks of craving for strong drink put on 
 board a ship where there was not a drop of strong drink. 
 
62 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 and you were to watch over him, treat him as I suggested 
 and guard him day and night. ** 
 
 “ We were/’ said the first young man. 
 
 “We carried out our duty to the letter/* said the 
 second young man. “ Hence our great discovery, which 
 will revolutionize — ■** 
 
 “ Pray go on/* said the physician, turning to the other 
 man. 
 
 “ Until the first attack came on, and indeed between the 
 attacks, our patient wanted no watching because he had no 
 desire for drink at all. A better companion, a better fel- 
 low never lived. Then the first attack came. ** 
 
 “ Ha! The first attack.** 
 
 “ His man knew the symptoms and warned us of what 
 was coming. He himself warned us. We had ample time 
 for preparation.** 
 
 “ Very good. What did you do? Watch him closely?** 
 
 “ Yes. But first we searched him at his own request. 
 He was most anxious that we should be thoroughly satis- 
 fied. We searched his cabin, examined every corner of his 
 cabin trunk; we looked into his berth and under the berth 
 and on the shelves. There was not so much as a bottle of 
 eau-de-Cologne. He had secreted nothing. And there 
 was no drink on board the ship at all. We had the cabin 
 on either side of him, and the captain and his own man 
 and the steward had the three cabins opposite. 1 should 
 like you to understand exactly, otherwise you would never 
 believe what we have got to tell next. ** 
 
 “ Go on. The voyage was a failure/* the physician 
 groaned. “ You have told me that. You are now going 
 to make excuses/* said the physician, gloomily. 
 
 “ At sunset on the day of the first attack Mr. Atheling 
 went into his cabin. W e sat outside the open door. His 
 man Mavis went in and made some simple arrangements. 
 Then he came out. The door was locked. We watched 
 outside.** 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 53 
 
 “ Fools! You should have watched inside. I know now 
 what you are going to tell me/' 
 
 44 We had proved that he had no drink in the cabin; we 
 were certain that there was none on board the ship. What 
 was the use? We might, if that was alb have watched the 
 case from the mast-head." 
 
 44 In the morning he was drunk." 
 
 “In the morning he presented every appearance of in- 
 toxication. He could not be drunk, because there was no 
 drink for him to get at." 
 
 44 He was as drunk as David's son, however." 
 
 44 Well, he looked it. What is more remarkable, he 
 continued drunk for three days and more. We went in 
 and out of the cabin all day; there was no drink in it. I 
 repeat," the young medico said, earnestly, “ there could 
 have been no drink in his cabin, just as there was none on 
 the ship at all — none. Yet he presented every symptom 
 of intoxication." 
 
 44 More," said the other. “ His cabin smelled of 
 whisky. Until w;e arrived at our great discovery it was 
 the most mysterious, the most unaccountable thing ever 
 heard of. No one would have believed it. " 
 
 44 Good Lord! what fools^" said the physician, heart- 
 lessly. 
 
 44 We may be fools," replied the first young man, “ but 
 we can at least show that we carried out our mission, and 
 if it failed — " 
 
 “ It was because there exists a Force which nobody has 
 discovered before ourselves," said the second young man, 
 “ the discovery of which will make this voyage as memor- 
 able as that of the 4 Eagle.' " 
 
 “Good Lord!" repeated the physician. 
 
 “ There was no drink on board," repeated the ship's 
 doctor. 
 
 44 Rubbish," said the physician. 
 
 44 There certainly was not. Of that we assured our- 
 
54 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 selves. The captain swore that there was none. We 
 searched his cabin. The steward assured us there was 
 none. We searched his cabin. There was the official 
 book of ship’s stores to show that there was no drink on 
 board.” 
 
 “Ha!” said the physician, incredulous. This interjec- 
 tion may be made to exhibit a vast amount of suspicion. 
 
 “ You do not believe? Well, we can not help that. We 
 had the assurance of Mr. Atheling’s man Mavis.” 
 
 “ I remember, the faithful retainer who always found 
 the drink. An excellent and trustworthy witness.” 
 
 “ At any rate the poor man was in despair. His master 
 had given him a promise in writing of two hundred pounds 
 if the voyage was carried out without his having any access 
 to drink. So that he lost the money, a very considerable 
 sum to lose.” 
 
 “I begin to understand,” said the physician. “Pray 
 go on, gentlemen. Your behavior has shown the highest 
 intelligence. When the conjurer directs your eyes to the 
 ceiling you obey. While you are looking up he does the 
 trick. Wonderful!” 
 
 “No. In this case there was no juggling possible.” 
 The cabin door was unlocked; we went in and out all day 
 long. We never saw him drinking. Yet he presented 
 every appearance of a man drinking himself almost into a 
 comatose condition. He lay in his berth all the time; he 
 was never quite stupefied; sometimes he recovered par- 
 tially; sat up and began to sing; his eyes followed us with 
 a kind of suspicion. ” 
 
 “ No doubt,” said the physician. 
 
 “ We were compelled, in short, to believe that we have 
 discovered a new phenomenon; symptoms never before ob- 
 served in such cases. ” 
 
 “ Really!” 
 
 “ I will come to that immediately. In the meantime, 
 observe first that on the fourth day Mr. Atheling came out 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 55 
 
 of his cabin completely himself again. The sea-air soon 
 restored his shaken nerves. He became again the delight- 
 ful companion, and he wanted no stimulant. Three weeks 
 later another attack. Again the warnings, again the same 
 precautions, again the same symptoms.” The young 
 medicine man looked at this point preternaturally solemn. 
 His companion endeavored, but with less success, to as- 
 sume the same solemnity. 
 
 “ In fact, after making notes and comparing our obser 
 vations, we have drawn up a paper on the subject. It 
 embodies the facts and contains our theory.” 
 
 “ Our joint theory,” said his friend. 
 
 “Our joint theory. We propose sending it to the 
 ‘ Lancet/ It is called the ‘Unconscious Simulation of 
 Alcoholic Symptoms/” 
 
 “ Ho! ho!” laughed the physician. 
 
 The young men looked disconcerted. 
 
 “ Allow me,” said the speaker. “We account for the 
 phenomena by an association of ideas similar to those 
 which have produced like results in the stories of mediaeval 
 saints. ” 
 
 “ Ha! ha!” the physician laughed again. 
 
 “ Allow us, at least, to finish. As there was no whisky 
 to be procured, memory conjured up an exact reproduc- 
 tion in the mind of the processes which had previously — ” 
 “ Made him as drunk as David's son,” said the physician. 
 “ Well, gentlemen, you will do what you please about your 
 scientific paper on the ‘ Simulation of Alcoholic Symp- 
 toms/ If you publish that paper I may have to call at- 
 tention to the fact that you were sent out to watch this 
 case, and that you allowed the patient to pass the nights, 
 unwatched and alone, in his own cabin. That is all. 
 Have you anything more to report to me?” 
 
 “ Nothing more,” said the chief speaker, abashed. 
 
 “ Except,” said the other, “ that we have had the most 
 delightful voyage. Of course, but for this trouble.” 
 
56 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “1 dare say,” said the physician, coldly. “You were 
 not, however, sent to enjoy a delightful voyage so much as 
 to conduct an experiment in the interests of science. And 
 you have' failed. You have been tricked and duped.” 
 
 It is the most fatal thing for a young man to fail in the 
 first mission intrusted to him; no matter that he is not to 
 blame; he is blamed. He never gets another mission. As 
 for these two young gentlemen who had made such a re- 
 sponsible start they got no more chances, because they had 
 failed. Their scientific paper, which was to have made 
 their fortune, on the simulation of alcoholic intoxication 
 never appeared. They parted company, one of them is 
 now a general practitioner in the neighborhood of Tooley 
 Street borough; he receives sixpence for every consulta- 
 tion, and has to give a bottle of medicine with his advice; 
 he does pretty well and has sometimes taken thirty or 
 forty sixpences in a day; he is married; but he feels that 
 even these blessings fall short of what might have come to 
 him had that scientific paper been published. And he still 
 watches for new illustrations of this strange and morbid 
 trick of memory. The other is doctor on board a steamer 
 which voyages up and down among the South Sea Islands, 
 carrying passengers, and picking up dead sea-slugs. And 
 even he is not completely happy. He regrets that they 
 watched outside the door. Experience has taught him the 
 crafty ways of the toper. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HOW THE PATIENT RETURNED. 
 
 A few days later the subject of this valuable but un- 
 published scientific paper presented himself in person to 
 the physician. 
 
 “ Humph!” he growled. “ So you^ve come back from 
 your precious voyage?” 
 
THB DEMONIAC. 
 
 57 
 
 “ As you see/' George replied, with an assumption of 
 ease. But he had something of the appearance of the 
 school-boy who can not conceal or deny the fact. 44 And 
 I've come to report myself." 
 
 66 Very well. You need not trouble to report yourself, 
 because I know already what you are going to say. " 
 
 44 Well, I am come to say that, as I expected all along, 
 the devil proved too cunning." 
 
 44 And his victim too cowardly. Well, go on. You had 
 an excellent chance of curing yourself of a shameful and 
 insidious practice, and you have failed. And science has 
 lost the record of an interesting case. You have failed. 
 As for laying it on the back of the devil—" 
 
 44 Anyhow, doctor, the voyage was a failure." 
 
 44 1 know that already; a ridiculous failure. After the 
 first month you ought to have come home again, for all 
 the good it has done. You have had the pleasure of throw- 
 ing away a good many thousands of pounds and you are 
 none the better for it, but — I am glad to tell you after 
 such a result — very much the worse." 
 
 44 No, not worse. I think I am really better. Because, 
 you see, now that I have made up my mind to the worst, 
 1 am no longer troubled about resistance. I am resigned. 
 I accept the inevitable. I am not so unhappy about things 
 as I was. Better, doctor, not worse. Much better." 
 
 44 Humph! You are looking in very good health, at any 
 rate, confound you." 
 
 44 1 am perfectly well. That is the strange thing, con- 
 sidering what I go through every two months. It has now 
 become a recurring attack at settled periods of two 
 months. Well, it seems to produce no bad effects upon 
 me at all." 
 
 His face had become broader and somewhat coarser. 
 Some of the finer intellectual beauty had dropped out; 
 one can not very well enjoy such periodical experiences 
 and hve such a life and preserve altogether the spiritual 
 
58 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 look; but it was a handsome face still. Not in the least 
 the face of an habitual drunkard. And always a good- 
 tempered and a kindly face. 
 
 44 1 know all about. it/* said the physician. 44 You need 
 not trouble to tell me. After a few weeks at sea the first 
 attack came. Your medical men — the intelligent pair 
 who were to keep you and watch you night and day- 
 searched the cabin and yourself for drink. They found 
 none. They left you alone all night — alone in the cabin 
 — no suspicion of the craft and subtlety of what you call 
 the devil. In the morning you presented every appearance 
 of one heavily intoxicated. You were comatose with 
 whisky.” 
 
 44 That is true,” George smiled gravely. 44 That is 
 quite true.” 
 
 44 At every recurring attack the same appearances were 
 observed after the same elaborate precautions had been ob- 
 served?” 
 
 44 They were. The two young doctors have written an 
 essay on my case,” he laughed. 44 They call it a case of 
 associated alcoholism or the simulation — ” 
 
 44 1 know, I know.” 
 
 44 1 perceive that they have called upon you. Well, you 
 know, they are capital fellows. They play a good rubber, 
 sing a good song, handle their singlesticks cleverly, and 
 put on the gloves with good temper. They were never 
 dull and only melancholy at the first go off when the simu- 
 lation, you know, began. They were unhappy then. 
 Not a drop of drink in the whole ship, and yet there 1 was 
 — in the cabin. They searched the ship as energetically as 
 the young man from the country searches the stage at 
 Maskelyne and Cooke’s.” 
 
 44 Yes,” said the physician, 44 so 1 suppose. Pray, sir, 
 may a plain man, who is no conjurer, inquire how this 
 stupendous miracle — this conversion of water into whisky 
 — was accomplished?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 59 
 
 46 1 told you that the devil would be too cunning. Well, 
 now. Mavis, my servant — ” 
 
 44 Oh, yes, 1 remember Mavis, your servant. Ah! He 
 is the devil, then?” 
 
 44 1 sometimes think he is. Well, like all great conjur- 
 ing tricks, it was really quite simple. When I told Mavis 
 to get a captain I was not aware that he had cousins in the 
 seafaring line. Luckily for me he had. One of these 
 was a captain, a very good captain, too, though he had lost 
 every situation, one after the other, through his habits of 
 drink. This 1 did not find out until afterward. Other- 
 wise, the best of captains. He pretended to be wholly un- 
 acquainted even with the taste of spirits — a Rechabite from 
 his youth upward. 9 K 
 
 44 That was an excellent beginning.” 
 
 44 Truly. Then there was the steward. He, too, as 
 afterward appeared, was a cousin, and had got into trouble 
 on the Orient Line in connection with the bottle depart- 
 ment. He, too, professed total abstinence-said that he 
 abhorred even the appearance of alcohol. Well, you see, 
 with those two on board and Mavis, who 1 ought to have 
 known can not live without his beer and his grog, it was 
 pretty certain that there would be always something on 
 board. In fact, they had enough on board to sink the 
 ship, but they kept the thing dark. At dinner and at 
 luncheon we had apollinaris.” 
 
 44 Yes. And how did this admirable servant convey the 
 drink to your cabin?” 
 
 ' 44 By a little contrivance. And it shows what a man of 
 resources my servant is. He knew what would happen 
 very well, and he provided accordingly. So that, when it 
 did come, and that with a rush and hardly any warning, 
 so that 1 verily thought it was going to kill me outright, 
 there it was all ready for me. 4 Mavis/ I said, 4 get me 
 the whisky and Pll give you four hundred/ You see, I 
 
GO 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 liad promised him two hundred if he brought me home 
 with a sober record.” 
 
 44 Good. Mavis was a far-seeing servant. ” 
 
 44 So he whispered what 1 was to do. Then your two 
 doctors searched the cabin and my pockets. They left not 
 a corner; they took out the mattresses and the pillows and 
 the cushions. When they were quite sure that there was 
 nothing for me they allowed me to go in and left me to 
 wrestle it out. ” 
 
 44 Left you? Fools!” 
 
 44 To wrestle it out, they said. Then they sat down and 
 watched outside the door. They watched all night. But 
 the moment they were out of the cabin I unscrewed a cer- 
 tain ornamental knob and drew out of it a tube with a 
 mouthpiece, and the tube, doctor, was connected with a 
 cask of whisky. Now, do you understand the subtlety of 
 the devil?” 
 
 44 1 do. 1 thoroughly understand it.” 
 
 44 As for Mavis, he earned that money. I had a charm- 
 ing voyage, varied by several little episodes of that descrip- 
 tion. We were all pleased, especially the two men of 
 science.” 
 
 44 That is all you have to tell me, I suppose?” said the 
 physician, coldly. 
 
 44 That is all. I have given up the idea of trying to re- 
 sist any more. If I can not be cured except by my own 
 resistance I can never be cured at all.” 
 
 44 No, you are now beyond hope. Well, Mr. Atheling, 
 it is a thousand pities to see a splendid man ruined. Shall 
 1 read your future?” 
 
 44 If you can, doctor.” 
 
 44 Your will has now grown so weak that you can not 
 resist; you shrink with terror from the mere idea of re- 
 sistance; the attack, which is a kind of spasmodic action 
 and should be met and defeated by resolute refusal to 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 61 
 
 yield, is now magnified in your imagination into a terrible, 
 monstrous, powerful devil, to whom you surrender basely 
 and cowardly without a blow. Well, you will go on in 
 this miserable weakness, growing slowly or swiftly, as the 
 ease may be, worse and worse, as a rudderless ship drifts 
 slowly or rapidly on a lee shore. The attacks will become 
 more frequent and more violent — perhaps both. You will 
 gradually lose the only thing which now protects you — that 
 small amount of self-respect which makes you hide your- 
 self and your vice when it overtakes you. Presently you 
 will cease to care whether your friends know about it or 
 not. You will no longer have the desire to preserve a 
 good name. All the time your mind will be deteriorating 
 as your will weakens. Remember that on his strength of 
 will depends the whole life of a man. Your judgment in 
 business affairs will be impaired. All your finer qualities 
 - — they have already suffered loss — will be destroyed; your 
 learning, your skill, your art, your genius, your eye, your 
 taste — all will go. In course of time you will become, if 
 you live, an open, acknowledged and daily drunkard. 
 You will live in this degraded and disgraced condition un- 
 til by mere lucky accident you will take cold, get pneu- 
 monia, and so be kicked out of the world you have helped 
 to make worse into another, where you will receive the 
 treatment due to you. As for your children, if you have 
 any, you will have transmitted to them your inheritance, 
 if it is an inheritance, of alcoholic craving, doubled and 
 trebled, with far less power of resistance than that with 
 which you started. Not only are you a coward to your- 
 self, but you are a criminal to your children.” The doc- 
 tor paused and snorted. 
 
 George heard him without the least indignation, remon- 
 strance or surprise. 
 
 “All these things,” he said,, quietly, “1 have said to 
 myself over and over again, with agonies of shame and re- 
 proach. I say them no longer. 1 feel no longer any pang 
 
62 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 of shame. As for my children, I have made up my mind 
 not to have any. ” 
 
 “ So say you now. Wait for a year or two. Wait till 
 your loneliness becomes more than you can bear. Young 
 gentleman, any weak creature may go and get married; 
 but it requires a far stronger man than you to remain un- 
 married.” 
 
 “ I see before me in place of the future you have drawn 
 a life of harmless obscurity. 1 have parted with my old 
 ambitions because they are no longer possible to attain. I 
 have no career before me. I can attempt nothing. When 
 I. die the waves will close over me, and 1 shall be forgotten 
 in a moment and regretted by no one. Six times in the 
 year 1 shall go into retreat. In the intervals I shall be 
 calm and contented. The craving will not grow upon me; 
 it has not grown for five years; it does not come on oftener 
 than it did.” 
 
 “ Because you are young and have still left some of the 
 resources of your former life. You read, you walk, you 
 think. Wait till you grow weary of occupation without an 
 aim.” 
 
 “If your prophecy, or half of it even, were to come 
 true, do you think that I should continue to live?” 
 
 “ Why, man, with such a vice as yours you would love 
 your life too well. Besides, your will would be too weak. 
 You could not longer bear to face a violent death even to 
 escape the greatest shames possible to life. In your strong 
 frame already beats the heart of a coward.” George 
 laughed. “ When 1 told you this once before you winced. 
 Now you laugh. Observe the deterioration that has al- 
 ready set in. You laugh.” 
 
 “ If you like. 1 never think of the thing that way now. 
 What would have been shameful and disgraceful three 
 years ago is now a part of my life — part of my life. 1 feel 
 no more disgraced because I am afflicted with this incura- 
 ble disease than if I had rheumatism. It~is all habit. I 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 63 
 
 now understand how the worst criminal can entertain the 
 most virtuous sentiments. I am resigned to the inevita- 
 ble.” 
 
 66 One thing might save you— it is the only thing. For 
 the sake of some others — for some great personal attach- 
 ment — for some great scare on their account — you might 
 make the sacrifice of one night’s suffering. For your own 
 sake, never.” 
 
 66 Then I shall never make that sacrifice. I am, as you 
 say, too great a coward, and I can never again greatly care 
 for any human creature.” 
 
 George went away. . He had expected no help from the 
 physician, and he got none. He was like one who sees 
 heaven — all glorious, blissful, eternal — before him, but 
 fears to pass through the fire of purgatory, which lasts but 
 a little while. Many such souls there must be, waiting on 
 the bank, cowering at the sight of the cleansing flame. 
 Yet he knew that he was getting worse. His purposeless 
 life, as well as his surrender, was dragging him down. But 
 he had formed a resolution. He would work. At least 
 he would have some object to live for, if it were only to 
 earn his daily bread. 
 
 “ Mavis,” he said that evening, “ I have seen my old 
 doctor again. I told him that the devil has proved more 
 cunning than he thought. He isn’t acquainted with the 
 devil, that doctor.” 
 
 . “No, sir.” 
 
 “ He thinks he is, but he is not. Yes, he thinks he is, 
 but he isn’t. The doctor doesn’t seem best pleased with 
 the result of the voyage. He expected better things. 
 Well, we did promise a different ending, didn’t we? We 
 did start with the intention of completing the job.” 
 
 “We did, sir,” said Mavis. 
 
 “ And we have completed it, though not exactly in the 
 way we intended.” 
 
64 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 Come, sir, after all it don’t do you any harm. Even 
 the doctor can’t say but what you look as well and as vig- 
 orous as ever. Lately, too, they haven’t come quite so 
 regular, have they?” 
 
 64 Well, I don’t know about that.” 
 
 4 4 A drunk now and again— an honest drunk— and have 
 done with it,” said Mavis. 46 What harm can that do any 
 man? Why, that’s the way the sailors live. They 
 couldn’t keep up if it wasn’t for the looking forward. 
 Think of the gentlemen drinking their champagne every 
 day. Why, it’s far worse. As for you, sir, a more tem- 
 perate and sober gentleman don’t live. You ought to take 
 a pride in yourself for your moderation. What is it? A 
 couple of bottles of whisky once in two months. Spread 
 it out, a quarter of a bottle in a week; why, it’s nothing.” 
 This was the longest speech Mavis had ever made. 
 
 44 Very good, Mavis,” said his master. 44 1 will seek 
 consolation in that reflection. Meantime, I am going to 
 make a change. You shall have the cottage to live in. I 
 shall go and live in some part of London where I am not 
 known. 1 will let you know where so that you may be on 
 the spot when — ” 
 
 44 Very well, sir,” said Mavis. 
 
 44 1 have made up my mind to start afresh in a new 
 place and on a new plan. I shall take another name. I 
 shall go and live a great deal lower down in the world. I 
 shall no longer call myself a gentleman. I shall not be a 
 man of fortune, but one who works for his daily bread. 
 Perhaps my new companions will forgive any little eccen- 
 tricities of conduct, if they do discover things. On the 
 point of personal dignity or self-respect they will probably 
 be less exacting. So that, if the doctor’s prophecy comes 
 true, and I’m sure I don’t know that it will not, they will 
 not turn me out into the wide, wide world with ignominy. 
 There may even be fellow-sufferers among them. Well, 
 do. you understand?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 65 
 
 “ Perfectly., sir. Am I to find you a place and a com- 
 panion?” 
 
 “ No. This time, Mavis, I will look about for myself. 
 You provided me once with a captain and a steward, and 
 a nice little workable knob, didn’t you? This time I will 
 find for myself what I want.” 
 
 “ What am I to do, sir?” 
 
 “You can go and live in the cottage. I will pay you 
 the same wages. I will also pay the rent of the cottage 
 and your own board. You can live anywhere else if you 
 like, but you must keep the cottage ready for me. Until 
 I have learned the feelings of my new friends on the sub- 
 ject, 1 will keep the cottage. You will call for me at the 
 regular times and carry me off and look after me as usual. 
 Otherwise, 1 shall have no more work for you.” 
 
 “ Very well, sir. ” 
 
 “ You will be an idle man;^be a discreet man as well. 
 Guard those secrets of mine, and when next you meet me 
 remember that you are not my servant, but an old ac- 
 quaintance with whom 1 have business relations.” 
 
 “ Very well, sir,” said Mavis. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OF PENELOPE AND HER WOOERS. 
 
 “ Why will you still press me?” asked the girl. “1 
 have answered your question already a dozen times.” 
 
 “ I press you,” replied the man, “ because your answer 
 appears to me more and more unreasonable. Surely the 
 time has come at last for you to give another kind of re- 
 ply.” 
 
 “ No, I have only one answer. I am already, as you 
 know, engaged. Therefore I can not listen to any talk on 
 this subject, even from you, Mr. Carew, my old master.” 
 
 “ You are engaged to a man who has neither written to 
 
66 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 you nor visited you nor sent any kind of message to you 
 for five years. ” 
 
 44 That is true. It is also true — and I must not forge t 
 it — that when 1 last saw him I assured him that I should 
 wait for a release from his own lips. I have waited and I 
 still wait. ” 
 
 4 4 He went away. He has sent you no message since 
 that time. You know that three or four years ago he 
 drew money from his bank. Therefore he was then alive. 
 But he sent you no letter or message. That shows that he 
 thought you were free. Perhaps he is dead. To you the 
 question need not be raised. You are free.” 
 
 44 If rich men like George die, their death is heard of by 
 their heirs. I do not believe that he is dead. Let him, if 
 he chooses, set me free.” 
 
 44 Then he has forgotten you. Good heavens! As if 
 that were possible!” 
 
 44 In either case I must wait. If he is dead — until I 
 know the fact. If he has forgotten me — until he tells me 
 so himself.” 
 
 This conversation was only one of many turning upon 
 the same point, the nature of which is sufficiently indi- 
 cated. It was carried on in the library of a great house in 
 South Kensington. The library was the girl's study, the 
 original proprietor, her father, having abdicated since his 
 daughter's return from Cambridge. It contained a good 
 collection of books, and on the table were heaped the pile 
 of papers, magazines, and books, with the inevitable waste- 
 paper basket beside them, which denote the presence of the 
 scholar or the writer. These two young people met each 
 other as often as they possibly could; they walked together, 
 they rode together, they argued on the things which most 
 interested them, and continually came back to the same 
 question and the same answer, with a commentary on the 
 latter furnished by the young man. For the girl was so 
 constant to a forgetful lover as to remain faithful after five 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 G7 
 
 years of neglect and silence, and the young man was so 
 persistent a suitor that he returned continually to his ques- 
 tion, and continually remonstrated with the answer. 
 
 The girl, you perceive, was Elinor Thanet, now three- 
 and-twenty years of age. It seems old to those who are 
 still eighteen, but it is not regarded by those who arc past 
 three-and-twenty as a great age, even for a girl. And at 
 three-and-twenty there is still the first sweet bloom upon 
 the cheek, and there is still some of the first fresh spring 
 of youth. 
 
 When we last saw Elinor she was on the point of going 
 to Cambridge, there to achieve the honor and glory of a 
 first-class. She fulfilled the first part of the programme — 
 that is to say, she did go to Newnham. But as for the 
 second part, that event did not come off. Perhaps the de- 
 fection of her lover disheartened her; perhaps the intric- 
 acies of Latin prose worried her; perhaps she lost her am- 
 bition; whatever the reason, she did not present herself at 
 the honors examination. Her friends, however, said that 
 she could have taken a first-class if she had pleased. Many 
 thousands of pass men say the same thing of themselves, 
 but their friends accept the statement without zeal, even 
 with frigidity. Few, indeed, have it said of them. So 
 that Elinor retired from her university course with great 
 and uncommon distinction. Not to take a first-class when 
 you can have it for the trouble of asking for it argues a 
 superiority that has never yet been found, even among the 
 Gollege dons. The consciousness of this distinction was 
 doubtless the reason why Elinor on returning to London 
 treated the common herd of admirers with so much dis- 
 dain. Her own common herd was more numerous than 
 that of any other girl because she was going to be rich. 
 Every picture, even the most beautiful, looks all the better 
 for being richly framed. 
 
 Elinor Thanet was also distinguished by a very remark- 
 able circumstance. She was engaged and her lover had 
 
08 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 disappeared. At this time no. tidings had been heard of 
 him for three years. She herself had heard nothing of 
 him or from him for five years. But for three years he 
 had drawn no money from his bank and had made no 
 communication with his lawyers. Yet he was a rich man, 
 having an income of many thousand pounds a year, all of 
 which lay accumulating — a great mass of unused wealth. 
 And certain cousins who were greatly interested in his wel- 
 fare were beginning to ask when the missing man should 
 be considered dead. 
 
 These circumstances; the first-class which had not been 
 taken; the lover who could not be found; the fortune 
 which would come to this young lady — made her a person 
 of the greatest interest to society. As yet no one had suc- 
 ceeded in persuading her that her engagement had really 
 been broken off long ago by the neglect and silence of her 
 lover. No girl, I think, ever had a more convenient weap- 
 on of defense than this shadowy engagement. Nay, it 
 was a weapon of offense as well, because it could be used 
 to drive away a persistent suitor as well as to ward off him 
 who advanced daintily for the first approach. 
 
 The only man who was allowed to persist was a certain 
 John Carew, professor of political economy at Gresham 
 College, sometime lecturer at Newnham. 
 
 The word “ sometime” sounds well — it has a savor of 
 ancientness. Yet John Carew was at present only six-and- 
 twenty years of age. He was one of those who march to 
 the front early and are born with the conviction that they ' 
 belong to the front. Many men there are — most men, in 
 fact — who could never march to the front. Their place is 
 in the ranks; they are happiest low down; they are too 
 diffident as to their natural gifts and graces for any am- 
 bition at all; they are afraid of themselves, they can not 
 picture themselves incurring vast responsibilities and exer- 
 cising great authority. Not so such a man as John Carew. 
 He strides straight up the hill. “ My place,” he says, “ is 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 69 
 
 in the front row. Make way for me, if you please. ” 
 After a bit they have got to make way for him and to put 
 him there, when very likely he shows that he was right. 
 
 Up to the present, as you have seen, John Carew has 
 done very well— as well as can be expected at the age of 
 twenty-six. He had no family interest or connections; he 
 was the son of one of those successful clergymen who get a 
 newly built district church in a suburb inhabited by clerks; 
 his father had no money to spare; yet this fortunate youth 
 received the best education that the country can give, pro- 
 ceeded to the university, took the very best degree possible, 
 became a Fellow, and at twenty-six was professor in a Lon- 
 don college with as great a reputation as one so young can 
 well obtain and with every promise of greater distinction 
 to follow. All this magnificent success sprung out of a 
 school scholarship, and it is the history of successful men 
 by the hundred. 
 
 John Carew, however, was not inclined to stop at a col- 
 lege professorship. He meant to rule a larger class than 
 gathered in his lecture-room. That he had no money was 
 a hinderance. Fortune favored him again, because she 
 threw in his way a girl, beautiful and belonging to the 
 world of society and wealth, with whom he allowed him- 
 self to fall in love. Had this girl not been wealthy John 
 Carew would not have allowed himself the luxury of love. 
 Since she was wealthy he loved her very deeply and sin- 
 cerely. He meant, if he could, to marry her; he meant, 
 by means of her wealth and position, to advance himself. 
 A perfectly desirable girl from every point of view does 
 not present herself to every young man, and especially to a 
 young man who makes it his aim to take no step in life, 
 especially not such a step as marriage, unless it be a step 
 in advance. 
 
 Meantime there was no one else in the way. Other men 
 came and went away discouraged. And there was no one 
 else with whom Elinor talked with so much freedom. It 
 
70 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 is the rule of such girls to discuss with their friends every- 
 thing, even the delicate questions of love and marriage. 
 
 “ 1 do not say,” Carew confessed, “ that a woman of the 
 higher kind should not marry. We owe our best and our 
 highest qualities in trust to be carried on to the next gen- 
 eration. But I do say that a woman should hesitate long 
 before she consents to give herself into what are rightly 
 called the bonds — the chains and the fetters — of wedlock. 
 Marriage should be a surrender of self on both sides— an 
 equal surrender — a giving and a taking.” 
 
 Elinor laughed. “ That is conventional talk, Mr. 
 Carew. When will you find the equal couple? There is 
 no such thing in nature as a couple equal in intellect, in 
 will, and in force of character. Therefore one must sub- 
 mit, or they must agree to part. And submission is easier 
 than separation. Do not talk conventionality to me, my 
 friend. You do an injustice to my understanding.” 
 
 “ I would not willingly commit such a crime.” 
 
 “ If I were to marry you 1 know very well that unless 
 you had the mastery there would be no peace for your soul. 
 Most men are masterful by a kind of instinct; you are 
 masterful because you feel your strength of brain. If I, 
 for my part, looked for your boasted equality, you would 
 soon allow me to understand—” 
 
 “ 1 should never, at least, allow you to understand any- 
 thing short of the very best respect and worship — ” 
 
 “Well, let us converse about something on which we 
 may, perhaps, agree. 3 5 
 
 No one could doubt from the appearance of the young 
 man that Elinors appreciation of his character was per- 
 fectly correct. His face was irregularly good-looking — 
 bore the stamp of resolution and of courage. He had the 
 chin and mouth of a man who meant to have his own way; 
 he had the clear-cut nostrils, the straight eyebrows, the 
 steady eyes and the square forehead of one whose mind was 
 both active and happiest when working on things hard and 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 71 
 
 tough to the general multitude. It was the" face, the head 
 and the figure of the fighting man. And in these days 
 when the world is looking in all directions for leaders I 
 really think that John Carew has as good a chance as any- 
 body of showing what stuff there is in him. 
 
 “ Let us talk of something else, then.” He went to the 
 table and took up a book. “ Tell me what you are work- 
 ing at.” 
 
 “Another time. Something,” she said, “ has brought 
 back the memory of my old lover. 1 know not what note 
 has been struck. I seem to hear his voice and to see him 
 standing before me. 1 do not think there is anything, my 
 friend, that 1 should wish for more than to see him again 
 and to hear from his own lips what he has done, why he 
 went away, and why he has forgotten me altogether.” 
 
 “ You agree, then, that he must have forgotten you?” 
 
 “ Something happened to him, the nature of which I 
 can not so much as guess; something happened which 
 altered not only the whole course of his life, but his very 
 nature. What can alter a man so much in three months? 
 Not any ill stroke of fortune; not ill health; not any busi- 
 ness troubles — at least that I ever heard of. What could 
 it have been?” 
 
 “ I do not know; I can not even guess.” 
 
 “ Consider. He has gone away; he has left his great 
 wealth untouched; he has not drawn any money for three 
 years!” 
 
 “ He is probably dead.” 
 
 “ No; 1 am certain that he is not dead. We should 
 have heard of his death somehow. Why did he go away? 
 What is the cause of his keeping away? If it were love or 
 marriage he would still want his money.” 
 
 “ And you, if you were to meet him, how would you re- 
 ceive him?” ^ 
 
 “ He would be always my brother. 1 have not a spark 
 of any other feeling left for him. At one time it was 
 
72 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 different. I was very fond of him and thought a great 
 deal about him. He was in my thoughts nearly all day. 
 That was because he was always with me, 1 suppose. We 
 used to play together. I donT know even how we became 
 engaged. No word was said, I know, but one day we met 
 with a warmer pressure of the hand — and that was all. 
 Poor, dear boy! He went out of my thoughts; Cambridge 
 drove him out; and he went out of my 'heart. I have long 
 ceased to lament him, or to fancy that 1 love him — and yet 
 —yet — I want to hear from his own lips, and the last 
 words that 1 said to him was a promise of constancy.” 
 
 “ A promise — yes, but since for all these years you have 
 heard nothing — whether he is dead or alive, or if you heard 
 that he was living three years ago, the fact that he never 
 wrote a line shows that he considers you free long ago— 
 long ago. Elinor, do not waste time over such a man any 
 longer.” 
 
 “ Find him for me. Formerly ladies enjoined great 
 tasks upon their knights.” 
 
 “ Will you call me your knight?” 
 
 “"Yes.” She gave him her hand, which he kissed. 
 44 But not yet anything more. This is my task which 1 
 lay upon you. Find that missing lover. Tell me where 
 he is. It is really a very little world. Find out where he 
 is and bring him to me or me to him. ” 
 
 “ If you had ordered me to slay a giant or a dragon I 
 should have complied contentedly. But for finding your 
 old lover — What is the name of this abominable per- 
 son?” 
 
 44 His name is Atheling.” 
 
 “ Atheling! 1 seem to have heard the name somewhere. 
 I donT remember at this moment. Atheling! big blue 
 eyes, brown hair. As for voice?” 
 
 46 A pleasant, musical voice, rather low down. A clever 
 man with ideas. He started with the intention of being 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 73 
 
 something great-prime minister. lie was as ambitious 
 as you. ” 
 
 44 Am I ambitious?” 
 
 44 You are nothing else, except that you are clever, much 
 cleverer than George, who would not have got beyond 
 Secretary for the Colonies. 1 believe the stupidest man 
 always gets the Colonies.” 
 
 46 Well, I have his name. W 7 hat shall 1 do next? I 
 can not search the wide world for him because my lectures 
 forbid my absence. But 1 can start inquiries. I believe 
 that when a gentleman is wanted by the police they send 
 round a description. But then the police know where such 
 gentlemen as they want mostly resort, which is a great ad- 
 vantage to them. They don’t know where such a man as 
 your friend may be found.” 
 
 44 You are much more clever than any police.” 
 
 44 Let me rather slay a giant for you, Elinor. 1 would 
 much rather kill a dozen giants.” 
 
 46 Their death would bring me neither joy nor profit. 
 Let the poor giants live, and find my poor old friend.” 
 
 44 It is such a wonderful thing— such a mysterious thing. 
 Why should the man go away? Why should he keep 
 away? How does he live? He must be dead.” 
 
 44 A man doesn’t die without somebody knowing about 
 it. Death is a public thing even for the meanest man. 
 Everybody knows it. People find out what the man died 
 of, who he is and all about him. It is a thing that can not 
 be concealed any more than a birth.” 
 
 44 He may be in San Francisco — or in Hong Kong — or 
 anywhere you please.” 
 
 44 No; he was a thorough Briton; he would never be 
 comfortable except at home. He would never be happy 
 unless he was living his old familiar life. Where he is liv- 
 ing and why, I can not tell. Find that out for me, my 
 friend. Find him out.” 
 
n 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN ARCADIA. 
 
 There is a suburb (a district) of London where those 
 reside who have to court happiness on one hundred and 
 fifty, two hundred, even three hundred pounds a year. 
 Not all those who enjoy this income live in this district, 
 but few live here who are burdened with a larger income. 
 It is a country pleasant of aspect. The roads are broad 
 and are planted with limes. The houses are nearly all 
 built after the same pattern, one of a kind which does not 
 require the pencil or the imagination of the architect. 
 They are small houses. Your only true comfort in this 
 cold climate lies in snugness. Each house has a basement 
 sitting-room, which in winter is commonly used as the 
 family living-room. On the ground floor is the best room. 
 Above are three or four bedrooms. At the back is a nar- 
 row strip of garden in which those who are clever and can 
 give all their leisure to the task contrive to grow quantities 
 of flower-bearing plants; it is also useful on Monday morn- 
 ing for a drying ground, when the incense of soapsuds 
 arises weekly in a fragrant steam and ascends to the god- 
 dess of cleanliness. Then the garden presents a waving 
 white surface, broken only to the eye of the upper story by 
 the green poles. The garden generally has a swing in it 
 for the children, and in many cases there is even a green 
 arbor where the gentlemen of the family may take, in the 
 cool of a summer evening, the solace of tobacco. In front 
 of the house is a small, a minute garden, which has some- 
 times only a single laurel in it, but more often boasts of a 
 laburnum or a lime or even a hawthorn. And many of 
 the houses are covered all over with Virginia creeper, so 
 that the autumn aspect of this quarter is all glorious with- 
 out. It will be observed that they can all be described as 
 
THE DEMONIAC. ?5 
 
 commodious family residences. The rental is about thirty 
 pounds a year. 
 
 Apart from the convenience of the residences and the 
 leafy beauty of the roads I have often thought that the 
 most precious quality of the district is the entire absence of 
 anything which can humble the residents and make them 
 envious. No great houses rear their lofty fronts beside 
 these simple two-storied structures; no one possesses a 
 private carriage, not even the doctor; nobody keeps more 
 than one servant; there are no dinner-parties; a dress-coat 
 is absolutely not known. Dinner is regarded not as a 
 function of religious ceremony, as it should be, but as a 
 necessary operation, like stoking the engine — necessary but 
 expensive, even with the best management, and a thing to 
 be jealously kept within limits. Yet, though there are no 
 dress-coats, think not that there is no society. There is a 
 great deal of society. Young folks enjoy greater facilities 
 for meeting each other than persons who obey a stricter 
 law of convention and propriety. The girls get lots of 
 pretty things to put on, as most pretty things, in fact, are 
 cheap— though they have to make up these pretty things 
 with their own pretty hands for their own pretty figures. 
 As for getting engaged, they are all engaged, sometimes 
 half a dozen times over — but never more than one at a 
 time, so lofty is the moral standard — before they finally 
 settle down. There is an unwritten law, obeyed by all but 
 the reckless and the unthinking, that a prudent pair 
 should not marry until the income reaches a hundred and 
 twenty. This once achieved they form the procession, 
 strike up the wedding-march, and march up the aisle and 
 stand before the clergyman, conscious of having done their 
 duty in waiting, and now fully justified in commencing as 
 Adam and Eve in a new Garden of Eden, from which 
 they hope never to be turned out. There are dancing 
 classes in the winter, in the summer there are excursions, 
 trips, tourists* tickets, and outings; there are lectures. 
 
76 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 concerts, readings, and there is the social life of the church 
 and the chapel — of late years the Church has discovered 
 that she, too, must come down and associate with her peo- 
 ple if she would keep them out of the chapel. There are, 
 for instance, the guilds. This kind of folk is very fond of 
 guilds, and of all societies and institutions which admit of 
 a little dressing up, putting on of cassocks, carrying of 
 banners and pretense-making of all kinds.' In short, the 
 place is never dull. The people go but little to the the- 
 aters, though you will generally find that the younger sort 
 have seen the most popular pieces. They never by any 
 chance visit picture-galleries or museums; they know noth- 
 ing about good music; they never read books at all except 
 the cheapest novels — there is never a bookseller in the 
 quarter. They have no knowledge of literature, art, or 
 science; they take, as a rule, but small interest in politics, 
 though they have a firm belief in law, and in all times of 
 difficulty and of danger they wonder why government does 
 not make a law, yet they are never dull. When men and 
 women congregate together as friends and neighbors and 
 know each other they are never dull. Those places only 
 are dull when the houses stand side by side and street lies 
 parallel with street, and no man knoweth his neighbor. 
 Bloomsbury is dull, South Kensington is dull, but this 
 place — never. 
 
 One must not specify its exact situation on the map of 
 London. To name the place might, if this history should 
 come to be widely read, cause a rush, an influx, an immi- 
 gration of strange folk who have nothing in common with 
 these people but their income. This would run up the 
 rents, enhance the value of the pews, and enlarge the views 
 of the butcher, which are already. Heaven knows, large 
 enough. Call it Clerkland, but it should be called Ar- 
 cadia. 
 
 Quite the prettiest road in Clerkland is Daffodil Road. 
 It is at once the broadest, the best planted with trees, and 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 77 
 
 the most flowery. There are flowers in every window, 
 Virginia creeper over every house, a lilac or a laburnum in 
 every front, and a lime-tree for every two houses along the 
 whole road. The line is broken by a red-brick church, set 
 among trees and already pleasantly wrapped in ivy — The 
 Church of St- Luke the Physician, where the services are 
 musical and bright. The word ‘‘bright / 5 as generally 
 applied to the modern church service, has a meaning quite 
 peculiar, but then everything should have its own adjec- 
 tives. There are forty-two houses in the Daffodil Road, 
 each with its own name — quite grand— all to itself, though 
 the post-office, which lacks the poetical sentiment, insists 
 on a number as well. 
 
 The residents in the road mostly know each other either 
 with familiarity and intimate friendship or with speaking 
 acquaintance. And they know each others private affairs. 
 They know where every husband has his berth and what is 
 his salary, what his family, what his wife’s method of 
 household management, and pretty nearly the weekly bill 
 of the butcher. It is not so much in a spirit of prying 
 curiosity that this knowledge is sought — curiosity doubtless 
 enters to a certain extent into the inquiry; we are but hu- 
 man — as in the desire to get if possible another wrinkle 
 into the great and wonderful mystery of managing. For 
 lo you! we who boast that we are men — the creators — men 
 the inventors — men who carry along the world — men who 
 discover, create, enlarge — we men have never imagined or 
 devised anything that surpasses in ingenuity, wit, con- 
 trivance, and marvels of results, the great art of manage- 
 ment invented by woman, and carried in this suburb to its 
 utmost perfection. It is indeed a miracle and passing 
 wonder of human skill, that most amazing art. Under- 
 stand that she who has to bring up a family of six on an 
 income of two hundred and fifty pounds a year, to educate 
 them, to teach them manners, to make them appear in the 
 streets neatly and, for the girls, prettily dressed, must for- 
 
78 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 ever be studying this wonderful art. She does not go out 
 to spend; she stays at home to manage; she does not buy 
 this or that as the whim seizes her, if she thinks that she 
 wants it; she manages. That is to say, for the most part 
 she does without — she waits. But consider, when at last, 
 after patient waiting she arrives at the power of getting a 
 thing that is to add so much to the family comfort, she 
 purchases it with a far fuller joy, a far deeper satisfaction, 
 a far greater thankfulness than can ever be enjoyed by 
 that unhappy Dives who only experiences a slight sense of 
 something lacking before he orders and buys a thing. The 
 matron who manages gets the full flavor and enjoyment of 
 everything that she buys or possesses. 
 
 To be able to buy so little! That seems to outsiders who 
 need not consider a sixpence or dime or half a crown a 
 most unhappy thing. Not so. The unhappiness is in 
 being unable to live up to your own standard of material 
 comfort. As for what is unattainable, those who live here 
 see it not. A loftly, impenetrable, insurmountable hedge 
 hides from them the trees which bear the fruits which they 
 can not pluck and eat. Some of the younger sort peep 
 over and yearn after them, but as for the elders, they are 
 content. They live as they have always lived — under the 
 law of management. 
 
 It is not, indeed, an unhappy life, that of the petits gens 
 —the folk of the very small income. They have to make 
 their things last a long while. They hardly ever have as 
 much dinner as they could put away had they a free hand, 
 so to speak; they must consider the penny for the omnibus 
 and the halfpenny for the evening paper. Anything that 
 can not be made at home wants money; therefore every- 
 thing that can be made at home is made there. The clever 
 husband with his own hands and the family gimlet executes 
 the little repairs of the house and furniture. Sometimes, 
 but not often, he is so clever that he can actually make 
 things — cabinets, chests of drawers, picture-frames, cup- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 79 
 
 boards, garden seats and benches. His wife does the re- 
 pairs of all the garments except the boots (to the philoso- 
 pher it is difficult to understand why she has not long since 
 resolved to mend the boots as well as the socks), the one 
 servant does the washing. It is astonishing how much 
 may be saved when husband and wife are thrifty and know 
 how to manage. Above all, and as the first consideration, 
 one must not eat or drink too much; the children are ex- 
 pected to finish up the bread and butter, and not to ask 
 for more; everything is doled; the tea by half spoonful, 
 the milk drop by drop, as if it were a precious cordial; the 
 butter is spread thin and the cheese is cut in bits the size 
 of dice. Well, they have always been accustomed to spare 
 and to save; it is their life; they are never able to buy; 
 they must manage. 
 
 Among the families of Daffodil Road was, until a few 
 weeks ago, one which differed in many respects from those 
 around them. The differences were in points minute to 
 those above and below, but of great importance to those of 
 the same level. To begin with, the head of the household, 
 understood to be by birth an Australian, was in appearance 
 quite unlike the rest of the householders. They, for the 
 most part, are small in stature and slight in figure. They, 
 mostly in middle age, incline to primness; they are all, 
 even in earliest youth, neat in apparel, as becomes those 
 who are taught at the outset the mere money value of per- 
 sonal appearance. The Australian was a big man; he had 
 a big frame, big hands, a big head, and a big brown beard. 
 He was careless in his dress, which generally consisted of 
 some brown stuff; he wore a pot hat; he had such small 
 regard for appearance that he smoked a pipe in his front 
 garden; he was irregular in his church attendance; he was 
 not respectful to the clergy, speaking to the curate as if ho 
 was his equal. He was always genial, always ready to talk 
 aud to laugh. He laughed quite freely, this singular 
 young man. In this quarter they are seldom givep. much 
 
80 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 to mirth, mere idle mirth, because, you see, they must 
 forever be thinking of management, an art which demands 
 that the votaries give themselves up wholly to their mistress. 
 
 He was not, in fact, in the least point like a city man. 
 He had no respect for wealth and cared nothing about 
 money-making. Now to these simple people the honor 
 and glory of toiling all day long, in order to make money 
 for their masters, is increased in proportion to the amount 
 of money they do make. When the year has been fat and 
 the garners are full, they swell out with pride, they give 
 themselves airs among their fellows. Why not? It is 
 the part of a good servant, says the copy-book, which we 
 too often neglect, to rejoice at the good fortune of his mas- 
 ter. Such observations as fell from the lips of Mr. George 
 Humphrey so far from sympathizing with this view were 
 calculated even to make the clerks ashamed of their zeal. 
 He asked, openly, what good it did them when the year’s 
 balance brought an extra ten thousand or so into their 
 master’s coffers. 
 
 Of course his profession was known. It was that of jour- 
 nalist. Your true city man regards this calling with un- 
 concealed dislike. The pay is supposed to be uncertain; 
 there are no regular rises in salary; a man at fifty may 
 make no more than a youth of twenty; there are no fixed 
 hours. To a regular and methodical man the alleged un- 
 certainties of tjie profession make it abhorrent and ab- 
 horred. Why, the journalist does not even want an office, 
 a thing granted to the youngest office-boy. He may do 
 his work at home while his wife is ironing the linen, or he 
 may sit in public-houses and write, or he may go to free 
 libraries and write there, or he may find a corner in the 
 printing-house and write there; or he may even write in 
 the street — horrible! There is no dignity in such a profes- 
 sion. And he is paid by the job; even a leader writer gets 
 so much for his article; one might as well be a working- 
 man and get paid by the piece. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 81 
 
 George Humphrey belonged, it is true, to the lower 
 walks of journalism. He had what is called a permanent 
 appointment as leader writer, paragraphist, and sub-editor 
 of the Clerkland 44 Observer ” — with which is incorporated 
 the Arcadia 46 Gazette 99 — a local paper of more impor- 
 tance than those who only read the 64 Times ” would be- 
 lieve. This job brought him in two pounds a week, but 
 then he wrote nearly the whole paper and it took him two 
 days and a half out of the solid week. He does it so well 
 that when, as happened regularly once every two months, 
 he had business which took him out of town for three 
 or four days, the proprietor gives him leave to go and find 
 a substitute. In the remaining three and a half days of 
 the week George Humphrey occupied himself in writing 
 short papers for magazines, essays, sketches, notes of 
 travel, papers on books and authors, and so forth. He 
 was a man of industry and reading; he had traveled much 
 and observed much; he wrote a pleasing style that had 
 flashes and sparks of brilliancy. Consider the enormous 
 number of weekly journals that now have to find attractive 
 stuff for their insatiate pages. Paste and scissors will do a 
 great deal, but it will not do everything. Such a man as 
 George Humphrey, with so much experience and versa- 
 tility, can always sell his productions, even if he can not 
 command his price. This, indeed, varies according to the 
 liberality of the proprietor and the circulation of the paper. 
 It varies from nothing a column— one could tell harrowing 
 stories were this the place — up to a whole pound a column, 
 which was George's highest price. In this way and by 
 working twice as hard as any man in any other calling for 
 the same money he made an income large for the place 
 and people among whom he lived, and no more precarious 
 than that of a doctor or that of a solicitor in practice, 
 though to the city clerk it seemed an uncertain, hand-to- 
 mouth way of living. 
 
 The wife of the journalist sat at her open window one 
 
82 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 evening in May, between six and seven. The evenings of 
 the sweet spring season of this year were as balmy as the 
 poet’s dream of May. The day had been warm and bright; 
 the sloping sun shone all along Daffodil Road upon the 
 rows of limes in their pale, chloral, early foliage; upon the 
 lilacs and the laburnums and the hawthorn all in full 
 splendor; upon the Virginia creepers fast shooting up their 
 long buds. Daffodil Road was glorified. It has two such 
 brief periods of glory — one in the spring, too often spoiled 
 by prolonged east wind; one in the autumn, also too often 
 spoiled by September rain and premature frost. 
 
 Mrs. Humphrey sat at her window, her work in her 
 hands, the cradle of her baby at her foot, and her two- 
 year-old rolling over a ball on the floor. That she was 
 happy and contented was manifest by her attitude, by her 
 repose, by the low, soft croon of her voice as she bent over 
 her sewing or looked down at her boy. 
 
 Nettie Humphrey was inclined to be small and slight in 
 figure, like so many London girls, yet taller than most. 
 Her shoulders were rather narrow. Her head, however, 
 was well shaped and large in proportion to the rest of her; 
 her features were regular and her eyes of dark blue — where 
 did she get those dark-blue eyes? — were certainly fine. 
 Her mouth, firm and rather square, showed the possibility 
 of that precious quality which we call character. The 
 room in which she sat was furnished in a taste quite un- 
 usual. For this quarter, while it clings to a best room 
 which it has not quite ceased to call a best parlor, runs to 
 stiffness and ceremony, loves a central table with books 
 round it and an ornament in the middle of it; likes to 
 have a looking-glass over the fire-place, insists upon a 
 piano even though nobody can play upon it, and covers up 
 every chair with things still called antimacassars, the name 
 pointing to the dark ages when men and women plastered 
 their hair with scented grease and wore it long. Moreover, 
 the taste of this quarter is great on mantel-shelf orna- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 83 
 
 ments, inclining still to hanging crystals and pink glass 
 jars, and it is not comfortable without a great hanging 
 gas chandelier. This room, on the other hand, looked like 
 a room for living in; there was a comfortable couch ready 
 to be wheeled up to the fire; there were two easy-chairs; 
 there was no central table; there was no gas chandelier at 
 all; there was no great looking-glass. It was furnished, in 
 short, as if Mr. William Morris himself had been asked to 
 step in and do what he thought best. On the walls there 
 were pictures which the visitors could not understand — not 
 their idea, you see, of what a picture should be — and one 
 side of the room was clothed, covered, hidden by books. 
 
 Nettie looked at the clock on the mantel-shelf. “ Half 
 past six,” she said. He will not come home before eight 
 at earliest.” 
 
 She resumed her work with a little sigh. Then she 
 heard footsteps outside and got up to open the door. 
 
 Her visitor was young, like herself, and a married wom- 
 an. She wore a hat and no gloves, “ I just ran across, 
 Nettie,” she said, throwing herself into a chair. 64 It’s so 
 dull at home when there is no work to be done. How’s 
 baby? How are you, Georgie, boy? Where’s George? 
 How do you like your new bonnet?” 
 
 She was Nettie’s younger sister Victoria, recently mar- 
 ried to a clerk in a bank on a hundred and fifty. Victoria 
 was like her sister, but smaller, prettier in her way, yet of 
 much less consequence to look at. She was very pretty, 
 indeed, of a beauty quite common — the small-sized beauty, 
 small, regular features, bright, gray eyes, light hair of the 
 fluffy kind, very small hands, and a mouth which, while it 
 certainly might be called a rosebud, had also in it that 
 slight but clear-cut curve which should be dreaded by 
 lovers, because it denotes temper. She was Venus the 
 Little, and Venus with the vice of temper. Mrs. Venus 
 the Great — Venus the unapproachable — can never be put 
 into a bad temper. It is impossible for her to be in a bad 
 
84 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 temper even with those whose hearts do not beat at the 
 aspect and thought of her. She pities them, but she is 
 not irritated by the coldness of such natures. 
 
 “ We are all very well, Vic. How is Charlie?” 
 
 66 Charlie went off this morning in a hateful temper. 
 As if a woman is not allowed to speak. 1 did speak, 
 though, and I will. I dare say he will come round again 
 during the day. If he doesn’t I don’t care. Sulking 
 hurts him more than me. What have you got here? A 
 new chair? My goodness! You had a new chair six 
 months ago. My dear, no income could stand it.” 
 
 6 6 George buys nothing that he can not afford. And we 
 are saving money. Ho not worry about our dreadful ex- 
 travagance, Vic dear. Mother was here this morning. 
 She had a good deal to say, too, about the butcher’s bill.” 
 “ Well, it isn’t what we were brought up to, is it? As 
 much beef and mutton as you like, and all your washing 
 put out and your dresses bought readymade for you.” 
 Vic sighed. “ You ought to think yourself a lucky girl, 
 Nettie. I wish to goodness I had your housekeeping 
 money. But there — it’s no use wishing. Some day, per- 
 haps, when Charlie gets made assistant manager — ” 
 
 “ Patience, Vic dear.” 
 
 The girl got up and began impatiently turning over the 
 things on the table. Among them was a photograph 
 album. She opened it. There were the family portraits 
 — her father, with a book in his hand and the look of a 
 philosopher equal to the mightiest problems — her mother, 
 with a self-conscious smile — herself, looking saucy, more 
 like a chorister in a burlesque than a respectable married 
 woman — George, big and bearded. “Nettie,” she said, 
 “ haven’t you got any photographs of George’s relations? 
 He must have some, you know. We’ve all got father and 
 mother, and brothers and cousins — where are his?” 
 
 They are in Australia, somewhere,” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 85 
 
 “ Well, if I were you I’d never rest till I found out all 
 about them.” 
 
 “ My dear, I do know all about them.” 
 
 64 Their names and their professions. They may be only 
 shop-keepers. Not that I’d. cast that in George’s teeth. 
 As Charlie says, we can’t all be born gentlemen. Though, 
 to be sure, I never would have married Charlie unless I 
 knew that his family were respectable.” 
 
 66 1 am perfectly satisfied upon that point,” said Nettie, 
 with dignity. 
 
 “George, certainly — whatever people think — seems to 
 be all right,” said her sister, doubtfully. “ His manners 
 are sometimes free, but I suppose it’s Australian ways. 
 And he seems to be making good money in his way, 
 though, thank goodness, it is not our way. Better a small 
 screw and certainty, says Charlie, than to wake up every 
 morning without knowing what you’ll make in the day. 
 And certainly George goes on sober, and he’s kind to you 
 and fond of the children. He might listen to mother with 
 a little more patience. But we don’t know his family, 
 that’s very certain. And — a curious thing, Nettie — Char- 
 lie was talking the other day to a gentleman, an old school- 
 fellow of his, who’s been out to Melbourne, where he was 
 an auctioneer’s clerk— well, he says that he never heard 
 the name of George Humphrey there at all. I thought 
 I’d tell you, Nettie.” 
 
 “ Thank you for nothing, Vic. What does it matter to 
 me whether Charlie’s friend has heard of George or not? 
 Melbourne is a big place. There are half a million people 
 in Melbourne. Perhaps George has never heard of your 
 auctioneer’s clerk ” 
 
 “To be sure, clerks and journalists,” said Victoria, 
 putting down the album with a little sniff, 44 do not always 
 mix in the same circles. So that, as you say, it may mean 
 nothing. But when it comes to hiding away your rela- 
 tions as if you were ashamed of them; never talking about 
 
86 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 them; never writing to them; getting no letters from 
 them — what does it point to? Everybody thinks the same 
 thing. It means that you are ashamed of your relations. 
 Well, my dear, you’re not married to George’s relations, 
 are you? It doesn’t matter much, only when I go on 
 Sundays to take tea with Charlie’s mother, and all in a 
 respectable way, I do feel a bit sorry for you. I dare say 
 it’s all right. You’ve got more housekeeping money than 
 your mother and me put together. You’ve lots to be 
 grateful for. Your babies are beauties, and as for your 
 things and your furniture, though this is not my idea of a 
 best room, they are as good as can be. You’re far better 
 off than before you were married. So that it would be a 
 thousand pities if you were to find out anything, wouldn’t 
 it? or if your money was to vanish away, wouldn’t it?” 
 
 Nettie nodded and laughed. She was not in the least 
 alarmed or vexed by these gloomy forebodings. In fact 
 she was used to them. Her family never failed to warn 
 her that fortune is fickle, that no one knew her husband’s 
 relations, and that he had no fixed salary. Her sister Yic 
 especially gathered consolation from considering these 
 dangers. Her own housekeeping required the most watch- 
 ful management; her “ things” were on a very limited 
 scale, but then she was safe with her husband. She knew 
 his family; he had a safe income, though it was small; her 
 sister, on the other hand, though she spent so much 
 money, was married to an adventurer whose family was a 
 mystery and who neglected his church. I do not suppose 
 that she actively desired her sister’s ruin, but she certainly 
 consoled herself iu times of the greater tightness with 
 thinking of her sister’s perils. 
 
 When Victoria was gone Nettie worked on in silence. 
 She knew very well, she said to herself, all that there was 
 to know about her husband. His father had land up 
 country — outside Melbourne; he himself had no brothers 
 or sisters; he had inherited this bit of land and a trifle; he 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 87 
 
 had been educated and was now in England making a liv- 
 ing, and a very fair living, too, by journalism. Every- 
 thing was quite straightforward; nothing to hide. Yet to 
 her own family the case was full of mystery. 
 
 Another &tep outside the door. This time her brother 
 Horatio. 
 
 The Patager family consisted of Mr. Samuel Patager 
 and his spouse, two sons— Horatio and Herbert — and two 
 daughters — Antoinette and Victoria. The selection of the 
 Christian name is in all classes of society a matter of great 
 delicacy and importance. What names more happy than 
 those four? The daughters happily married ; one of the 
 sons married, there remained under the paternal roof the 
 younger son, Horatio. By trade Horatio was a clerk, by 
 profession a bounder. No more illustrious bounder than 
 Horatio in the whole quarter. In his bounding he prac- 
 ticed as far as his means allowed all those arts and accom- 
 plishments belonging to the profession; he dressed as well 
 as things would allow, with an eye to the latest fashion; 
 he played billiards, he talked of actresses, he attended 
 dancing classes, he spoke familiarly of things unattainable, 
 he put shillings or half crowns — when he had any to spare 
 — on the favorite. He smoked pigarettes. He was, in 
 short, a commonplace, pasty-faced, unwholesome young 
 man, who should have been taken away and made to serve 
 in the ranks for two years. 
 
 The other brother, Herbert, was a good young man. 
 By profession he was a good young man. He belonged to 
 a guild which entitled him on occasions to wear a beauti- 
 ful long black cassock. He attended services at odd hours; 
 he saved his money; he was trustworthy in his business; 
 he really was very good. He does not belong to this sto^. 
 Let us, therefore, with a word of gratitude for one good 
 young man in this world of wickedness, pass him by. It 
 was Horatio who called upon his sister — not Herbert — Ho- 
 ratio the Bounder. 
 
88 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ I say, Nettie,” he whispered, looking round the room, 
 66 George not about, is he?” 
 
 “ No, George has not come home yet.” 
 
 “Look here, Nettie, Pm stone broke. Lend me five 
 bob, there’s a good girl. Only five bob, unless you like to 
 make it six.” 
 
 “ No,” she replied, shortly, “ 1 have not got any money 
 to lend. You ought to know that. ” 
 
 “ George gives you as much as you like. Lend me five 
 bob, and you shall have it back on Monday. Put it down 
 to the house. He won’t find out.” 
 
 “ Now, Horatio,” Nettie replied, “ if you dare to say 
 such a thing again, I will tell George, and he will — ” 
 
 “ What will George do, 1 should like to know?” 
 
 “ Well, perhaps he would take you up by your collar 
 and give you a good shaking. He could, you know, quite 
 easily. ” 
 
 “ Oh, would he! I should like to see him.” 
 
 He was small and insignificant to look at, but he fired 
 up at this insult and looked for the moment quite valiant. 
 
 “ If that is all you’ve come to say, Horry, you had bet- 
 ter go away at once.” 
 
 “ A nice sister you are, to care more about your own 
 husband than your own brother. Why, there isn’t an- 
 other woman in the world who would be as mean as you. 
 Your husband, indeed!” 
 
 “He does behave better than my own brother,” said 
 Nettie. “ He doesn’t go about to billiard-rooms, and he 
 doesn’t spend his money in music-halls. And now go, or 
 1 shall tell George what you say, and you will see how he 
 looks when he is angry.” 
 
 “ I don’t care how he looks. I say, Nettie, some day I 
 will find out what he has done, and why he is in hiding, 
 and then it’ll be my turn. See if it won’t. Talk of tak- 
 ing me up by the collar. I’ll have the knife in, Nettie, 
 and I’ll twist it. Who is he? Where are his family? 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 89 
 
 Him to be setting sister against brother! Well, Pil be 
 even with him.” 
 
 He disappeared. It will be seen that the “ family ” be- 
 tween them caused Nettie a good many disagreeable mo- 
 ments. She knew her family. She recognized the natu- 
 ral working of jealousy, which is only assuaged when its 
 object is pulled down a peg or two. But she was irritated 
 by the persistence of their attacks. 
 
 She had one more visitor. This time it was her father, 
 tempted out by the beauty of the morning. 
 
 The elder Patager suggested by his appearance and man- 
 ner that he was the confidential derk of a tall, portly, and 
 pompous city magnate. For he was himself, though not 
 tall, somewhat portly, as if, with a more generous diet he 
 might assume really aldermanic proportions; and he was a 
 little pompous out of office hours, as if he imitated his 
 chief at a respectful distance. His face was full, but 
 wanting in the true city fullness, such fullness as cometh 
 of turtle soup. He spoke slowly and with the air of one 
 delivering a judgment— yet the judgments were weak. 
 He seemed to endeavor after a sonorous voice, but the re- 
 sult was feeble. One whose conduct of life was really gov- 
 erned by the strictest sense of what was right. There is 
 no employe in the world so honest, so regular, so zealous 
 or so trustworthy as a good, elderly, life-long city clerk. 
 He is above suspicion and beyond temptation. He holds 
 no socialistic views as to the division of the spoil. He is 
 contented with his own salary. He has done better in the 
 struggle of life than many other mem Let us recognize 
 the many virtues of the man who keeps all the books for 
 the vast trade in the great city of London, and keeps them 
 honestly and exactly. Every such clerk, in the course of 
 a long and laborious life, builds up for himself, if it were 
 only acknowledged, a monument of ledgers as high as the 
 dome of St. PauFs. 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 
 
 90 
 
 46 Well, my dear. " Nettie was his favorite, chiefly be- 
 cause her tongue lacked the readiness and the sharpness 
 that belonged to certain other tongues in his household. 
 44 On such an evening one is tempted to forego the intel- 
 lectual pursuits proper to the time of day, so I thought 1 
 would — yes — put down the evening paper and look in. 
 This, room always looks comfortable, my dear — perhaps 
 because you are in it, though your mother doesn't hold 
 with the style. And how's George — out still looking for 
 jobs? An anxious life — incessant anxiety. Nothing safe 
 or secure about it. Give me the regular salary and absence 
 from care." 
 
 Nettie laughed. 44 There isn't much worry about 
 George, to look at him. He eats well and sleeps well." 
 
 44 But nothing regular. A day-by-day life. Well, well, 
 we can not all be in the city. It's something to learn that 
 work keeps up — something— something to Warn so much." 
 
 44 Oh, the work is all right. It never was better." 
 
 44 1 am free to confess, my dear," the father began, 
 with his approach to pomposity, “that I was originally 
 deterred by the considerations — " 
 
 44 Now you are going to say that George is only a jour- 
 nalist. I have heard it so many times already." Nettie 
 was getting irritated by their continued reflections on her 
 husband's calling. 
 
 44 1 was about to say that the uncertainty of the work, 
 coupled—" 
 
 44 No fear about the work, father. Don't worry about 
 George. You've got enough to worry about with Horatio. 
 And look here, father, it's time that things were left off 
 • — you know what I mean — things about George. Else 
 there may be trouble. Victoria comes to-day and Horry 
 after her, and both with the same story, as if there was 
 anything hidden about George, What is there to hide? 
 What do you want to know that you don't know?" 
 
 44 My dear, when you allow your daughter to marry a 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 91 
 
 stranger you naturally ask yourself whether that stranger 
 belongs to a respectable' family.” • 
 
 “ You should have asked him three years ago, then. 
 You did ask — and so did I — and I am satisfied. 5 / 
 
 “ Every man has got relations— even in Australia. He 
 must have a father and a mother . 55 
 
 “ George’s parents are dead . 55 
 
 “ To shake hands even with a cousin would be a satis- 
 faction . 55 
 
 “Go to Australia, then, and shake hands with him 
 there. Seriously, father, I can’t have these things said 
 any longer by my own family. If they were said by any 
 one else I should very soon tell George. Then I know 
 what he would do. He would go away; he would take his 
 family away.” 
 
 “ I sometimes think,” said her father in meditation, 
 “ that they would be actually glad if George was found 
 out in something. They’re always talking about him that 
 way.” 
 
 “ I believe they would.” . 
 
 The personal pronoun of the plural may mean a great 
 deal. In this case it meant the mother, Victoria, and her 
 brothers. 
 
 “ Words can not break bones, Nettie.” 
 
 “ They may break love, though. If I am expected any 
 longer to sit in patience while my husband is slandered I 
 shall have to consider — that’s all, father. And you had 
 better tell them so . 55 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE BON MARI. 
 
 At eight o’clock the garden door swung open and a 
 ponderous step on the gravel announced the return of the 
 master. Though she had been married for three long 
 years, Nettie sprung from her chair and ran to meet and 
 
92 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 greet her husbaj^L He came in — the man whom you have 
 already seen under another name — big, bearded, his coun- 
 tenance ruddy and cheerful. Remembering the wise 
 physician's prophecy, you might expect certain outward 
 and visible signs of decay. Nothing of the kind was visi- 
 ble. Some of the old light gone, some of the old eager- 
 ness vanished; but then he is three or four years older. 
 Besides, a big man can not preserve his youthful alacrity; 
 he can not be alert; his length of limb and his breadth of 
 shoulder will not allow the exhibition of these qualities; he 
 must move with a certain slowness. Hence it has followed 
 that the great men of the world have always been the little 
 men. 
 
 He came into the room, his wife hanging on his arm, 
 and sat down with the sigh of one who has knocked off for 
 the day. 
 
 “ Have you been busy to-day, dear?" she asked. “ Are 
 you tired?" 
 
 He patted her cheek gently. “ I have done a good 
 day's work," he said, “ and I claim the right to be cross 
 and hungry and tired. And you, Nettie?" 
 
 66 1 will be cross and tired as well, then. The children 
 have been very good. Vie looked in— and father; Vie was 
 rather dissatisfied and cross. I'm afraid she doesn't man- 
 age very well, and, poor thing! she has got to manage so 
 much. Well, dear?" 
 
 He drew her within his great arms and kissed her twice 
 fondly. 
 
 Three years before he had assured a certain learned 
 physician that he could never again care much for any 
 human creature; that meant that having found it neces- 
 sary to break off one engagement, he did not feel for the 
 moment equal to beginning another. The learned physi- 
 cian informed him in reply that loneliness would prove too 
 much for him. Prophetic physician! 
 
 He came to this part of London. He drew money 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 93 
 
 enough to keep himself going; he proposed to make this 
 serve, and for the future to keep himself by his own work. 
 When such a man, untrained for any profession, thinks of 
 work he turns to journalism. Formerly he turned to 
 teaching; now he goes to the nearest newspaper. In the 
 same way, women formerly, if they were compelled to 
 work for themselves, could think of nothing but govern- 
 essing. Now, if that calamitous necessity falls upon them, 
 there are a hundred ways. 
 
 George became a journalist; that is, he offered himself 
 to a local paper. For the wages of a grocer’s assistant he 
 began to furnish sketches, to look up things of local 
 interest, and to make himself useful. He succeeded; he 
 got on so well that he was now sub-editor; that is to say, 
 he edited the paper, but the proprietor put his own name 
 at the top. 
 
 Presently he widened his work, as you have seen, and 
 began to work for magazines. 
 
 He lived alone in lodgings. He knew no one at all, he 
 made no attempt to make friends, and once in two months 
 Mavis called for him and took him away for two or three 
 days. 
 
 He presently found his life intolerably dull. He tried 
 to brighten it by going to places of amusement. They 
 amused him no longer. 
 
 Then he made an acquaintance. She was in the post- 
 office. He got into the habit of speaking to her when he 
 bought stamps. It is quite easy to exchange a word or 
 two of simple courtesy with a young lady who serves out 
 the stamps and receives the telegrams. He discovered she 
 was a pretty girl — nay, a very pretty girl — that she had 
 really beautiful eyes and that she seemed, besides, to be a 
 quiet girl of good manners. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon he met her in the street. He 
 took off his hat. He assumed the position of an old ac- 
 quaintance. He walked with her. He informed her of 
 
04 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 his name and his profession and the place of his residence. 
 He obtained permission to see her home when she left her 
 office next day. He went back to his own lodgings a new 
 man — in love once more. 
 
 Now she was his wife and the mother of his two chil- 
 dren, the dispenser of his wealth. But he had not yet for 
 her sake dared to meet and to grapple with that fiend. 
 Still, after the stated interval. Mavis called for him. Still 
 he went away stimulated by the suggestions of the faithful 
 man-servant and by force of habit and by the djevil into 
 the craving which demanded that he should become a 
 drunken hog. That continued but it did not increase. 
 The devil took his tax — two days or three at the most — 
 every two months. The rest he might give to virtue, tem- 
 perance, and self-restraint. 
 
 66 George,” his wife said, presently, her thoughts still 
 running upon the question of her husband’s people, 44 this 
 glorious sunshine makes you think of Australia, 1 sup- 
 pose. ” 
 
 44 Sometimes, and of other countries when the sun is 
 warm.” 
 
 44 And of your own people, too. Wouldn’t you like to 
 see some of them again?” 
 
 44 My own people? Oh, yes — perhaps,” he replied, care- 
 lessly. 44 What made you think of my cousins, Nettie? I 
 am not very anxious to see my cousins, I think. What 
 made you think of them?” 
 
 44 1 don’t know. At least — But it doesn’t matter, 
 George.” 
 
 44 When one has no nearer relations than cousins — first, 
 second, or third — one does not think very much about re- 
 lations, I suppose. 1 have had no communication with 
 any of mine for four or five years. 1 wonder,” he added, 
 reflectively, 44 if they think 1 am dead. Because, in that 
 case-—” he paused, with a little chuckle, 
 
 44 Are they rich people?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 95 
 
 “ Some of them are very rich indeed. But we mustn’t 
 look to them for any help. Nobody is less inclined to help 
 a man than a rich cousin. He is ashamed of poor rela- 
 tions, to begin with/* 
 
 4 4 They’ve no call to be ashamed of you, George. And 
 we don’t want their money.” 
 
 44 Certainly not. They may go their way, while we go 
 ours.” 
 
 44 Do they live in Australia?” 
 
 44 None of them live in Australia. They all live here in 
 England. When they do invite us to visit them next we 
 will go together, so that you may see their grandeur.” 
 
 44 Perhaps, dear, they may help the boys when the time 
 'comes.” 
 
 44 The boys, I hope, will help themselves. You see, my 
 dear, I am perfectly certain that they will not think my 
 boys in want of any help.” 
 
 44 Do they know, George, where you are and that you 
 are married?” 
 
 44 Well, you remember that your father put a notice of 
 the marriage in the paper. Perhaps they saw that.” 
 
 44 Perhaps.” 
 
 44 Nettie, my dear ” he drew her to sit upon his knee, 
 while he lay back, his head in his hands — “let us not 
 talk about rich cousins, but about being rich. How 
 should you like to be rich now?” 
 
 44 I don’t know; what do you call rich? Four hundred 
 pounds a year?” 
 
 44 No; five thousand, ten thousand a year— all to spend.” 
 
 44 1 can’t think of so much; we could never spend so 
 much, nor half.” 
 
 44 Try to think of being so rich; try to understand what 
 it means to be rich. 1 believe that a dream of great wealth 
 is the commonest dream of all. Did you never dream 
 what you would do if you were rich?” 
 
 44 No, I never did. It would be foolish. Father used 
 
96 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 to be fond of saying what he would do if he were rich. 
 His thoughts lay on great houses and gardens and a car- 
 riage. I think, too, he would like to have an office and a 
 staff of clerks. But that’s the way of a man always to be 
 thinking of something different. Thinking and wishing 
 won’t alter things. A woman understands what is before 
 her and makes the best of it. Many men, 1 am sure, 
 never understand exactly what they are. My brother 
 Horry, for instance.” 
 
 “No, my dear. Horatio Patager certainly does not yet 
 understand himself.” 
 
 “ Then, you see, it is so silly of people in our station to 
 dream about getting rich. When a boy is made a clerk he 
 ought to .understand to begin with that he can never be- 
 come rich.” 
 
 “Like a Franciscan when he assumes the triple cord, 
 he renounces wealth. The modern Franciscan is the city 
 clerk. ” 
 
 “ He must be content to live respectably and to do his 
 duty, and to set an example of honesty and moral princi- 
 ple to those beneath him in station.” 
 
 “ Quite right, Nettie dear. It is only since I have 
 known you that 1 have properly estimated the breadth and 
 the depth of the influence exercised by the city clerk.” 
 
 “ Father was never rich. That is certain. But we have 
 always been most respected. Nobody can deny that.” 
 
 “ Consider, my dear. Give reins to your imagination. 
 If you were rich, you would have no anxieties. At present 
 your happiness depends upon my health and strength. 
 They may fail. If you were rich you would not think 
 about me so much perhaps.” 
 
 “ Then 1 could not love you so much, dear.” 
 
 “ The boys would have the best education — ” 
 
 “ And learn to grow up idle, and so get into mischief.” 
 
 “ You would have your carriage and your servants and 
 a big house, ” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 97 
 
 Nettie shook her head. “These things do not attract 
 me. Why do you keep harping on rich people, George?” 
 
 “ Partly, my dear, from a habit of curious speculation. 
 Partly because there seems a chance — just a chance — of 
 our really becoming better off.” 
 
 “Oh! better off. That 1 don't say — ” 
 
 “ Yes, a good deal better off. It is an opening. An 
 offer— provisional, of course — that 1 have had made to me 
 in connection with a West End paper. If anything comes 
 of it, why, then, you would have to prepare yourself for a 
 considerable increase to your income, madame. ” 
 
 “Oh! How much?” 
 
 “ Last year 1 made three hundred pounds. What do 
 you say to six hundred?” 
 
 “ George! It is impossible! Six hundred?” 
 
 “ Improbable, my dear, not impossible. To the jour- 
 nalist, as to the engineer, nothing is impossible. We do 
 not know the word. But we must consider before we 
 make a bid for this vast income. Being poor, my dear, 
 has many advantages. I never knew how good a thing it 
 was to be poor until — until 1 married you, Nettie dear.” 
 
 “ Not that we are poor at all, George. And now come 
 to supper.” 
 
 After supper George began to talk about poverty. He 
 persisted in regarding himself and his wife as poor people, 
 though they had quite the nicest house in Daffodil Road, 
 with every room furnished and paid for, and nothing on 
 the hire system, and though his wife had nearly a hundred 
 pounds of her own, all saved since her marriage and stand- 
 ing to her name in the Post-Office Savings Bank. 
 
 “ You see,” he said, “ how simple is our Jife — how few 
 are our wants as we live now. If we had more money the 
 wants would increase — the simplicity would vanish.” 
 
 “I am sure,” his wife replied, “that we have every- 
 thing we want. We ought to be very happy, George dear, 
 and I am, too. ” She laid her hand upon his arm fondly. 
 
08 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Very happy, my dear, thanks to you. Who could be 
 unhappy with such a husband.” 
 
 He kissed her. Then he filled and lighted his pipe. 
 
 46 If you are happy, my dear,” he said, slowly, 44 that 
 illustrates my point. We live and we are contented. Why 
 want more?” 
 
 44 1 want nothing more. I am quite contented, dear. 
 Yet I think we should try to get more for many reasons. 
 Because we shall grow old. And because of the children. 
 And because you may fall ill and be disabled from work. 
 Therefore we must always try for more.” 
 
 44 Let us, however, consider further,” George continued. 
 44 We occupy at present an obscure station and have few 
 responsibilities; no one expects anything of us; we have 
 few opportunities of cheating our employers or sweating 
 our servants. My employer, for instance, the proprietor 
 of the Clerkland 4 Gazette/ with which is incorporated the 
 Arcadia 4 Observer/ can, and does sweat me. I remark 
 the fact without rancor. The practice hurts me little; it 
 keeps me poor, in constant occupation, and in good train- 
 ing. It hurts the proprietor more than it hurts me. It 
 damages and weakens, you see, his moral fiber; I watch it 
 weakening; it makes the downward slope easier for his 
 poor feet. I look to see him presently accelerate the pace 
 and — swish!— glide swiftly out of sight into the chasm 
 below.” 
 
 44 No one talks like you, George. No wonder the curate 
 says you are above your station. A remarkably well-in- 
 formed man, he said to father.” 
 
 George laughed pleasantly. 
 
 44 No man, my dear, can be above his station. He may 
 be — he often is — below it. 'Sometimes I think that even 
 the curate. But no. Any man may adorn his station, but 
 he can not rise above it. To return. Consider another 
 point. We have two boys, the image, I am pleased to 
 think, of their mother. These boys, when they grow up. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 99 
 
 will perhaps begin to form and to nourish ambitions — even 
 in this suburb ambitions may spring in the youthful heart. 
 It is not given to every man to become the contented 
 clerk. Now, if that should prove happily to be the case, 
 they would have the whole world before them — every line 
 is open to them. The son of Croesus has no such choice. 
 His ambitions may be soaring, but his field is limited. 
 When you come to think rightly of it, to be so near the 
 bottom with the ladder all round you by which you may 
 climb to dizzy heights in any direction you please and the 
 lowest rungs all within easy reach and open to choice, it is 
 glorious! It is splendid!” 
 
 The wife shook her head. 66 1 hope the boys will go on 
 contented with their lot and as happy as we’ve always 
 been. I don’t believe in grandeur. It only leads to wild 
 ways.” 
 
 66 Perhaps. Another reason for remaining poor. Wild 
 ways, indeed! Wild ways! For the likes of us!” 
 
 64 And we are not poor, George,” his wife insisted. 
 44 We are most respectable people, Father always says 
 that ours is the one class that keeps the country honest. 
 We do all the work and the chiefs take all the money. 
 Down below there is drink. Up above there is profligacy. 
 That’s what father says. With us, there is honesty, fidel- 
 ity and moral principle. We don’t cheat like the trades- 
 man. We don’t grind like the capitalist. We don’t drink 
 like the working-man — ” 
 
 44 And we don’t profligate like the House of Lords. 
 Your father is always right, my dear Nettie. He is a most 
 valuable member of the State, and so are all your relations 
 except your brother Horatio. He, I confess — ” 
 
 44 Poor Horry!” 
 
 44 Let us return. Folks who are not exactly poor — like 
 ourselves — are not introspective nor retrospective.” 
 
 44 1 don’t know what it means, George, but I am glad 
 
 we are not, ” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 We look not backward or forward. Disease, for ex- 
 ample, we do not regard as hereditary. This saves us a 
 great deal of trouble and anxiety. We take no precau- 
 tions, yet we do not sit down in despair. For instance, 
 there is the hereditary disease of drink. Suppose one of 
 our boys was to break out in that direction?” 
 
 44 1 can not suppose. It is impossible,” the wife inter- 
 posed. 44 My boys, indeed! Your boys, George! To take 
 to drink? Impossible!” 
 
 44 Quite impossible, which is the reason why I ask you to 
 suppose it. His friends call him a toper, a drunkard, a 
 coward, a disgrace to his family. He feels that he must 
 fight against it; there is nothing else possible for him. If 
 he does not he will even lose his livelihood. Now, if he 
 were a rich man he would sit down; he would say — 4 1 am 
 a victim of heredity. There is no use in struggling/ ” 
 
 44 Then he would be a fool for his pains. But nobody 
 could be such a fool as that.” 
 
 44 1 dare say he would. A wiser plan would have been 
 to avert the disease by ordinary precautions. Physicians 
 are agreed, I believe, that disease may be more easily 
 averted than cured. Well, my dear, we are all of us act- 
 ively engaged in the course of our lives in manufacturing 
 diseases, tendencies, weak places for our children and the 
 generation to come, and we are at the same time suffering 
 from the diseases which our fathers were so good as to 
 create for us. Sometimes 1 think that we shall hereafter 
 take turn about, become our own grandsons, and so inherit 
 our own creations.” 
 
 44 We know that it is^not so, George,” said his wife, sol- 
 emnly. 44 As the tree falls—” 
 
 44 Quite so. Well, my dear, we who live a simple life 
 transmit a simplicity of living, a plain habit and healthy 
 temperance. Some of our good friends have inherited 
 puny bodies and tiny brains. Well, they are not conscious 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 101 
 
 of their inheritance. That is a distinct gain. They can, 
 therefore, go on hoping and can go on working.” 
 
 “ They do their duty, George, and in that state of 
 
 life—” 
 
 “ They do, my dear. They faithfully do. And they 
 have their reward.” If Mrs. Humphrey had any fault to 
 find with her husband it was that he so often interrupted 
 these little extracts from the hymn-book and the prayer- 
 book which pious ladies receive as the very Word. W r hat 
 more would have followed we shall never know, because at 
 the point there was a knock at the door. 
 
 The late visitor was none other than the interesting aud 
 zealous servant. Mavis. But he was a servant no longer. 
 It was Mr. Mavis. As such Mrs. Humphrey shook hands 
 with him. He stood in the door-way without saying a 
 word. His eyes dropped. 
 
 “ Well?” asked George, changing color. “You here 
 again?” 
 
 “ To-night if you are ready,” he replied, quietly. 
 
 “ Business in Boston again? So soon?” asked the wife. 
 “ How quick the time comes round.” 
 
 “ Business it is, and in Boston, madame,” said Mr. 
 Mavis. “ Train at ten sharp if that suits you.” 
 
 He sat down, his hat in his hands, waiting. He was no 
 longer the servant, which was shown by his taking a chair, 
 but he looked like one still. One never shakes off the 
 manners of a servant. 
 
 “ HI pack your bag, George,” said his wife, with a 
 sigh. “ I had forgotten. I suppose it is two months since 
 you went there last. And since it is business that pays so 
 well, why should I grumble?” 
 
 “ Since it has to be done, my dear George rose slow- 
 ly and unwillingly — “ and since it can not be done at 
 home I suppose it may as well be done at Boston as any- 
 where else. As for paying, ask Mavis himself how well it 
 
102 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 pays. Bread and meat, and drink and lodging and clothes 
 it has been to him for five long years. ” 
 
 Nettie ran away to pack the bag. 
 
 44 Don’t you feel like it?” asked Mavis. 
 
 44 1 never feel like it till you come, damn you!” 
 
 44 Then your throat begins to tickle and your mind 
 begins to run on whisky, and presently you begin to gasp 
 and your throat burns — ” 
 
 44 Hush! It has begun!” 
 
 His wife came back carrying the bag. 
 
 44 Good-bye, George dear. Take care of yourself. I 
 shall expect you home in three days. We have got plenty 
 of money. Good-night, Mr. Mavis.” 
 
 44 My dear ” — George folded her in his arms — 44 let us 
 think no more of getting rich. Let us continue in obscu- 
 rity. So best. So we must.” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MY OWN HOME. 
 
 Old men who have risen, young men who are rising, are 
 subject from time to time to a remarkable yearning after 
 a sight of the place they knew and haunted in the days of 
 small things. They must go back and look at the place; 
 they must revive the old associations. We have had, for 
 instance, recorded in the public journal how one who rose 
 to be a languishing nobleman from a butcher’s boy could 
 not refrain from visiting the scenes of his childhood, 
 though the visit was likely to bring trouble upon him. 
 
 Professor John Carew, one of the young men who are 
 rising rapidly, was naturally impelled from time to time to 
 arise and visit the scenes of his childhood. There was no 
 especial reason; the place was in no way romantic; and 
 there were no remarkable incidents peculiar to his own 
 childhood. Yet, once a year — or perhaps once in two 
 years — he would get into an omnibus and go off to walk 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 103 
 
 once more about the old familiar streets and roads and 
 squares. There was the church dedicated to St. Stephen, 
 in which his father was vicar; he was never particularly 
 fond of the church, and he had no great liking for church 
 service; it is not a beautiful church, being a neat erection 
 of red brick, one of these district churches which have 
 been raised within the last twenty years; he had spent many 
 hours of tedium in that church while his father, a good 
 man but no orator, read his discourse. Yet he always 
 walked down the road in which the church stood and con- 
 templated that monument with interest. The vicarage, 
 next the church, was the place where he was born; the 
 garden, that in which he had been wont to play; the road, 
 that in which his feet first trod their hesitating footsteps. 
 He was not a sentimental man, but he had this sentimental 
 touch. Perhaps the thing which most attracted him was 
 not so much the memory of the past as the contrast be- 
 tween his first beginning and the splendid future which 
 now seemed stretching out before him. This Church of 
 St. Stephen's stands in Daffodil Eoad. John Carew is as 
 much a native of the quarter as Nettie or Victoria Patager. 
 Therefore, when on this particular afternoon in June he 
 walked about the place everything was familiar to him. 
 He remembered a time when the whole world to him con- 
 sisted entirely of roads planted with trees, and behind the 
 trees little houses all alike, or nearly alike. Later on, the 
 whole world consisted of men and women living in a con- 
 dition of chronic tightness, the matrons managing with 
 the greatest craft and skill, the boys and girls always long- 
 ing for what they could not get. There is nothing in the 
 world so stimulating to some minds as the present con- 
 templation in the past memory of domestic tightness. On 
 the other hand, to some minds nothing may prove more 
 narrowing and enslaving. John Carew remembered how 
 he had very early resolved upon getting clear, somehow, 
 of domestic tightness. It made him angry to see his 
 
104 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 mother at work, every day and all day long, sewing, darn- 
 ing, contriving, arranging; she had no independent life at 
 all; no woman with her income and her family ever does. 
 Well, he would fight his way out of it — somehow. 
 
 The place was so familiar to him. He recalled the prim 
 and precise clerk who lived in one house; the clerk, with 
 all the importance of the senior partner, who lived in an- 
 other^ the clerk to a financier, who talked of millions; he 
 remembered them all, so regular at church, so narrow in 
 their ideas, so proper in their conduct, so solemnly com- 
 monplace in their language, so limited in their ambitions. 
 He remembered, besides, the sons of these worthy citizens; 
 why, from the earliest he had felt that he belonged to 
 higher levels than they could possibly reach, though at the 
 outset they were all poor together. For such a boy as 
 John Carew the ladders of ambition have been planted. 
 Once the lad has his foot on the first rung everything may 
 be achieved. This boy got his foot on a ladder by means 
 of a school scholarship. Everybody knows the rest. There 
 is no other country in the world — none — where a boy 
 whose parents can not help him may be thus enabled to 
 rise step by step till the greatest honors, the highest rank, 
 the noblest achievements are open to him. John Carew 
 loitered along the road, thinking of these early days, when 
 every step was hidden in mist and cloud, though the mists 
 and clouds showed golden in the sunshine. The young 
 man newly admitted into the ranks of the successful, the 
 parvenu among scholars, looks back upon such a time with 
 self-congratulation. When he is older he will think of it 
 with wonder that he should have been taken from the herd 
 and all the rest be left behind, and with sorrow that the 
 joy of hope — that the first budding of the timid, half-ex- 
 pressed hope — is so far behind. Presently John Carew 
 began to think of a family he had once known. Thus we 
 first think of the specie_s and then select the individual; we 
 first gaze upon the crowd and then pick out one to repre- 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 
 
 105 
 
 sent the whole. The head of this family, he remembered, 
 was a clerk and a person of great dignity; he was one of 
 the church-wardens of St. Stephen’s. His household con- 
 sisted of his wife, two sons and two daughters. The boys, 
 he was quite certain, were by this time in the city; they 
 were urbi ascripti ; long since they had found their desks; 
 they were now, perhaps, making their hundred pounds a 
 year or even more. "Where were the girls? The elder 
 always interested him, because she had large dark-blue 
 eyes which looked full of deep, deep thoughts, too wise for 
 speech, too spiritual for common man. Nay, there was 
 even a time when — but happily that business went but 
 very little way. No doubt a mind of commonplace with 
 eyes of romance. How should a girl belonging to such a 
 house be anything but commonplace? What had become 
 of Nettie? There was a younger sister — Victoria. But he 
 remembered less of her. She was four years younger than 
 Nettie. Yes, Nettie must be twenty-four — about two 
 years younger than himself. Very likely she was married; 
 the people in these parts marry early. Perhaps she had 
 gone away — yet those people do not care about going 
 away; they are attached to their old quarters. 
 
 He lifted his head at this moment and looked around. 
 Heavens! The oddest, most remarkable coincidence ever 
 heard of! For at the window, which served as a frame for 
 a portrait, he saw the very girl of whom he was thinking. 
 Five years, at least, since last he saw her; he knew her at 
 once; it was Nettie Patager. She was bending over some- 
 thing. In fact, the cradle. He stopped; he opened the 
 gate and stepped into the little front garden. She turned 
 her head. Yes, Nettie. There was no mistaking the 
 deep-blue eyes. She saw him and cried out with wonder, 
 and ran to open the door. 
 
 66 Why, it’s never John Carew, is it? Oh! do come in, 
 John Carew! We haven’t seen you for ever so long — not 
 since your father went away. Do come in.” 
 
106 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 She gave him both her hands, and would willingly have 
 kissed him had it been proper. 
 
 “Nettie! of course I knew you at once. And is this 
 your home — and your own — " He looked at the cradle 
 and its occupant. 
 
 “It is my own house — all my own. Isn't it a nice 
 house? And my own baby. I've got another little boy 
 two years old.. But he's gone out with the girl in his per- 
 ambulator, bless him!" 
 
 “ And what is your new married name, Nettie?" 
 
 “ My new name? I've had it for more than three years. 
 It's Humphrey — I think it is a very pretty name. George 
 Humphrey is my husband's name." 
 
 “ 1 do not seem to remember the name, in the old time. 
 Perhaps he belonged to one of the chapel folk." 
 
 “ Oh, no! always a churchman. George is a new-comer. 
 He doesn't belong to the place. He only came to live here 
 about three years and a half ago. My husband is an 
 Australian. He comes from near Melbourne. Fancy my 
 marrying an Australian! Who ever would have thought 
 of such a thing?" 
 
 “ Why not, Nettie — if he is the man of your choice?" 
 
 “ Of course he is the man of my choice. He isn't in 
 the city, you know, which w^ent against him at first, be- 
 cause we are all city people here and we like the old ways 
 best. Father thinks there is no safety out of the city. A 
 young man should get a berth in a good old house, he 
 says, and stick to it. That's his idea. Well, there is 
 truth in it too. What father says is always sensible. So 
 when George came to the house first he didn't get much 
 encouragement and was rather looked down upon — be- 
 cause he is only a journalist, you see — and a city clerk in 
 a good house naturally looks down upon a journalist." 
 
 “ Naturally." John Carew sat down and listened. His 
 old friend talked along just as she had always done, quick- 
 ly as all London girls talk, lifting her eyes, those wonder- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 107 
 
 ful great eyes, deep and fall, charged with mystery and 
 unknown depths of thought. 44 Quite naturally, Nettie.” 
 “Yes. But George bore up. He had the temper of 
 an angel — my husband. Nobody ever saw him put out. 
 When my brother Horatio — you remember Horatio — was 
 rude to him and chaffed him about his flimsy and his 
 penny-a-line, he only laughed. By degrees father came 
 round a bit. He could see that George was a steady young 
 man and went off to business at regular hours. Then it 
 was found out that he was making a good income — more 
 than three pounds a week, and somebody told father that 
 there are journalists who make as much as eight or ten 
 pounds a week. So father made no further opposition. 
 Besides, it was too late, because 1 was bent upon it by 
 then, whatever anybody said, and we were married at a 
 registry to show our determination. Of course, we went 
 to church afterward. ” 
 
 44 That was a happy time, was it not?” 
 
 44 Oh!” she clasped her hands; 44 but it's been a happier 
 time since then.” She sighed. 44 1 often think I'm not 
 sufficiently grateful. None of us are. Yet I've got the 
 best husband in the world and two of the loveliest children 
 you ever saw, and a nice house and a good income to 
 spend. What more can a woman desire?” 
 
 44 1 think there is not much more to be got. Love, 
 plenty, youth, health, and strong children. Do you know, 
 Nettie, you have got everything that the world can give 
 you?” 
 
 She laughed contentedly. Fancy one woman — and that 
 woman under five-and- twenty — able to absorb all that the 
 world has to give. Bightly is woman called receptive. 
 
 44 1 ought to be happy — 1 am happy, John.” 
 
 44 And 1 am very glad indeed to see my old friend in 
 such good case.” 
 
 44 But what are you doing, John?” 
 
 44 1 have left Cambridge; 1 am a professor.” 
 
108 
 
 THE DEM OKI AC. 
 
 44 Oh! a teacher in a school. Well, John, I am glad 
 you are not too grand for us.” 
 
 He laughed, too. It is well to have one’s position clear- 
 ly understood. 
 
 Then she went back to her husband again, as a woman 
 selfish in her own happiness naturally does. Nettie could 
 talk about George and the children all day long and dream 
 about them all the night and never feel the least desire to 
 change the subject. 
 
 “ George is not a common journalist,” she continued. 
 6 4 You must not think that. Once there was a journalist 
 who took a house next door to us. I believe that it was 
 his example which set father against the profession. The 
 beer that used to go into that house! At all hours, too! 
 Oh! he was a disgrace to the road. Everybody was glad 
 when he went away, though sorry for the poor wife to have 
 her furniture seized for the rent. My husband is not like 
 that man at all. To begin with, he has been a most won- 
 derful traveler; he has been all round the world — think of 
 that! And he knows French and German; he can quote 
 Latin and Greek; and look at all his books!”' 
 
 John Oarew got up instantly and began to examine the 
 books. A very good collection, so far as five or six hun- 
 dred volumes go. This man knew what reading meant. 
 
 64 And you may start any subject you please, and you 
 will find that he knows all about it — ” John began to 
 think that the man must be of the self-made, self-assert- 
 ive, ostentatiously superior kind. 44 Sometimes the^qurate 
 looks in of an evening, and they argue. The curate always 
 pretends to have got the best of it — but 1 know. It’s my 
 husband’s kindness — and as for writing, why he can write 
 anything. He writes the leaders every week in the Clerk- 
 land 4 Gazette ’; he sends descriptive articles to the maga- 
 zines and they are taken; he can write poetry; he can 
 write tales, too. Once he wrote a most beautiful story, all 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 109 
 
 about a man who was in love with a girl, but he found out 
 
 that he had an hereditary disease and he had to behave 
 cruel to her so as to break it off without her being blamed. 
 And so he went away—” 
 
 44 And died of a broken heart?” 
 
 “ No; in the story he went to live among poor people 
 and married a poor girl and she made him happy in spite 
 of the hereditary disease. When he is hard up for a sub- 
 ject he opens his note-book and writes out an account of 
 some island he has been to and sends that to 'a journal. 
 As for money, we are getting on famously — we have every- 
 thing we want — and we are saving, I can tell you. There’s 
 baby waking up.” 
 
 In fact the youthful Humphrey gave the usual evidence 
 of a return to consciousness. His mother took him up, 
 after the manner of the fond mother, and administered 
 the bottle. 
 
 “ It’s half past twelve,” Nettie went on. 44 This is one 
 of the days when my husband comes home to dinner. He 
 will be home by one. Will you stay and have some dinner 
 with us? Do, John, for old times’ sake. There’s plenty 
 and to spare. If there is one thing that we are extrava- 
 gant in, it’s housekeeping. Mother holds up her hands 
 only to think of my butcher’s bill. But then, I tell her, 
 she hasn’t got a man to provide a dinner for. What does 
 she want with a big butcher’s bill? When we girls were 
 at home it was a bloater one day and an egg one day or a 
 slice of bacon or a tin of Australian tongue cold, and good 
 enough, too. And even father is content with a shilling 
 for his dinner; says that to spend more than a shilling on 
 a meal is a sinful waste and gluttony in one who is a clerk. 
 But George is that kind of man who is not happy if there 
 is not plenty. It’s the Australian in him, I suppose. So 
 it’s only the prime joints that content him, and, I will say 
 this for him, he has as noble an appetite as ever blessed a 
 man. Then you will stay, John? It’s a lovely steat — a 
 
110 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 picture — it is indeed. I am going to see about it at once. 
 That’s kind, now; you will stay.” 
 
 She left the baby under his eye and ran away. Present- 
 ly he began to discover the fragrance of this unrivaled 
 steak, as it hissed under the influence of the clear fire in 
 the kitchen below. Nettie was not too proud, he observed, 
 to assist in cooking her husband’s dinner. By this time 
 he had made up his mind concerning this unique specimen 
 of the journalist — the complete and perfect journalist. 
 He was young, pasty-faced, under-sized, conceited, self-as- 
 sertive, and under-bred. He thought of the poor girl’s 
 enthusiasm with a kind of pity. How good for a woman 
 thus to nourish illusions concerning her husband! Since 
 one can not get rid of a husband, better never to know or 
 to suspect the truth about him. John knew the sheet — 
 the Olerkland 44 Gazette.” You see it existed in the time 
 of his residence. He remembered the character of its lead- 
 ing articles and drew an inference — hasty and without 
 sufficient foundation — as to the kind of man who would 
 write those articles. Pasty-faced, under-sized, under-bred, 
 self-taught and conceited— and Nettie believed that he was 
 a great scholar and a great genius! 
 
 The clock on the mantel-shelf struck one. Precisely to 
 the moment John heard a manly footstep outside. Then 
 a rushing footstep — it was the wife flying upstairs to greet 
 her husband. 
 
 66 George, we have a visitor — an old friend. Come in—” 
 
 The door opened, and the perfect journalist appeared. 
 John Carew caught his breath with astonishment. Pasty- 
 faced? Under-sized ? 
 
 Why, the man was a giant; tall, broad, rosy-cheeked, 
 handsome as Phoebus Apollo. Under-bred? 
 
 He advanced with the best air in the world. 44 A very 
 old friend of my wife is welcome,” he said, holding out an 
 immense paw. 
 
 44 This is John Carew, my dear,” said his wife. 44 He 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Ill 
 
 was the son of our last vicar — father was church- warden. 
 We often used to go to the vicarage for tea in the old 
 days. ” 
 
 44 Well, Mr. Carew,” said the husband, 46 1 am very 
 glad to see you.” 
 
 44 The vicar went away to another church.” 
 
 44 My father took a country living,” John explained. 
 He could not take his eyes off this man, so big, so hand- 
 some, so totally unexpected. Besides, he had an uneasy 
 feeling that- — 
 
 44 And so we have never met until to-day, when John 
 saw me by accident.” 
 
 44 1 have been at school and at Cambridge,” John ex- 
 plained again. 44 When one gets among other sets and in 
 other places — ” The uneasiness grew stronger. 
 
 44 Yes,” said the journalist. 44 What was your col- 
 lege?” 
 
 44 Christ's,” He was now quite sure that he had seen 
 that face before somewhere. 
 
 44 Ah!” He changed color slightly. 44 What year did 
 you go up?” 
 
 44 In *85.” When John went away he thought it was 
 rather odd that an Australian journalist should ask these 
 questions. When one young man puts them to another it 
 generally argues some acquaintance with the university. 
 
 44 Eighty-five— oh! Yes. Eighty-five? That was 
 after — ” he checked himself. 
 
 Then they went down to dinner. John observed — First, 
 that husband and wife drank water; that is not so unusual 
 in these days. He next remarked that there was an ob- 
 servance of dinner forms, simple enough, but not custom- 
 ary in households of Arcadia or Olerkland, where there is 
 only one real dinner a week — the napkins, the table-linen, 
 the serving of the dinner by the single maid, showed an 
 appreciation of dinner as a ceremony or act of worship. 
 
 44 George is particular about his dinner/* said his wife. 
 
112 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ At home we cook it pretty much anyhow, except on 
 Sundays. George likes it properly laid and served. Well, 
 1 must say that he has made me like it so, though another 
 would never give in to it.” 
 
 George volunteered no explanation of this singular taste. 
 By this time, however, John had discovered that the man 
 was a gentleman. Clearly, a gentleman. At every point 
 of him, a gentleman. How came such a man as this so 
 low do^vn in the world, assistant editor to a little suburban 
 local paper, living by chance contributions here and there? 
 
 44 1 hear that you are an Australian, Mr. Humphrey?” 
 he said, presently. 
 
 44 An Australian,” replied his host, shortly and in a 
 voice which encouraged no more inquiry in that direction. 
 
 Then they began to talk about the topics of the day. 
 This Australian talked well; there was not the least self- 
 assertion; he was not conceited; he was not half informed; 
 and he did not talk the day before yesterday's leading 
 article of his favorite paper. Now if one listens in a sub- 
 urban railway carriage, where the people commonly know 
 each other, you will observe, provided you are properly 
 posted in the literature of the Ephemerides, that the opin- 
 ions exchanged, offered, or confirmed on the subjects of 
 the day are those of the day before yesterday's 44 Stand- 
 ard,” or the day before yesterday's 44 Daily News;'' ac- 
 cording to the politics of the speaker. This man, because 
 he was an Australian, probably talked as one who has 
 taken the trouble to get at the facts from his newspaper 
 and to draw the deductions for himself. 
 
 When the early dinner was finished, John Carew felt 
 that he had met an intellectual equal, and in knowledge of 
 men and manners, a superior. But the college don rarely 
 has an opportunity of acquiring much knowledge of men 
 and manners. 
 
 44 Will you come to see me?'' he said. 44 1 live in cham- 
 bers. If you would dine with me at the Savile — ” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 113 
 
 “ Thank you very much,” Mr. Humphrey replied, 
 “ but 1 do not belong to club life or to West End life at 
 all.” 
 
 “ That is no reason — ” 
 
 “ Pardon me. You are very kind, but I live here ” — 
 he spoke decisively, 44 You who know this part of the 
 world — 99 
 
 44 Yes, yes,” for the speaker left the sentence unfin- 
 ished. 44 1 know — well — but if Nettie — forgive me, we 
 always used to call each other and think of each other by 
 our Christian names — and you would come to my cham- 
 bers alone some evening — if it is only to carry on this 
 talk — ” 
 
 44 Do, George,” said his wife. 44 We go out so seldom 
 — never anywhere, except to mother's — I should so like to 
 go, and John is such an old friend.” 
 
 44 Very well, my dear, if you like. Mr. Carew, one con- 
 dition, please; we will gladly accept your invitation if you 
 will allow us to find you alone.” 
 
 John Carew went home thoughtful. To begin with, 
 hererwas a very remarkable man; in any circle he would 
 be remarkable; he was nothing but a small suburban jour- 
 nalist. Now, such a man generally begins with being a 
 reporter; he writes short-hand; he attends local functions, 
 inquests — he is great in inquests; he portrays the local 
 news; he is acquainted with all the local tradesmen; he is 
 influential in getting advertisements; but he is not a gen- 
 tleman, a traveler, and a scholar.” 
 
 Had he done something to get so low down? 
 
 On the other hand, why should he do anything? Sup- 
 pose, which was probable, that he had come over here to 
 seek his fortune, and had been compelled by poverty to 
 take what he could get. He might very well not be eager 
 to be introduced to the literary circle of the Savile Club as 
 the assistant editor of a suburban paper. A man must get 
 up the ladder somehow or other; there is no dishonor in 
 
114 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 any honest way; but some of the lower rungs are rather 
 better to look at than others. 
 
 Nettie had done very well. Her large and lustrous eyes 
 — he remembered them when she was only a little girl — 
 had brought to her feet that prince of whom every girl 
 dreams but few girls get — a man strong, capable, well 
 taught, well bred, affectionate and constant. Happy 
 Nettie! Thrice happy Nettie! 
 
 But, after all, how came such a man in such a place? 
 
 He went to bed that night haunted with a sense of in- 
 congruity. What had such a man to do in such a place?,. 
 What brought him there? And he remembered the man^s 
 face — very odd thing; he remembered the face quite well 
 — that is, part of the face, not all of it — quite well and 
 clearly he remembered it. Where had he seen it? It was 
 one of these horrid half memories which disturb and irri- 
 tate one, because the other half will not come back. He 
 tried, but in vain, to remember the voice, the shoulders, 
 the big burly form, the great hands, the whole appearance 
 of the man. He could not. It was only the face that 
 seemed to haunt him. 
 
 A trick of the brain. How should he ever forget this 
 splendid man if he had ever met him? It was impossible. 
 One might as well try to forget some hero of romance. 
 One might as well forget Don Quixote, Colonel Newcombe, 
 She. A trick of the brain. Nothing but a trick of the 
 brain. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 The visit to John Carew’s rooms was duly made and the 
 condition observed. No one except the tenant of the 
 rooms was there to meet this suburban journalist of retir- 
 ing disposition. 
 
 Everybody knows the kind of nest— luxurious, well 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 115 
 
 furnished, aesthetic to a certain point, but with a certain- 
 kind of severity — which the young Cambridge don makes 
 for himself and transports with him when he leaves his 
 college. The rooms were a flat — young men who are pro- 
 fessors no longer live in airy chambers — there were two 
 sitting-rooms, both of them filled with books, but one have 
 ing its books only half-way up the wall so as to leave space 
 for engravings hanging above. Great feeling was displayed 
 in the selection of chairs; in such rooms there should be 
 no two exactly alike; as there are diversities in length of 
 limb, so should there be diversities in depth and width and 
 height of the chairs. In a more advanced state of civiliza- 
 tion these points will be observed even in dining-rooms. 
 There was no foolishness of fashion; smaller people may 
 put up peacock’s feathers one year and blue china the 
 next; a young professor must rise to the level that is above 
 fashion and remain there. There were also a good many 
 “ nice things,” chiefly gathered round about the shores of 
 the Mediterranean or the sandy banks of the Tipper Nile. 
 
 The professor observed when George Humphrey came 
 into the room that he looked about him with the eyes of 
 one who knows such rooms and, while Nettie cried out for 
 the beauty of the furniture, he began to go round among 
 the book-shelves reading the titles and taking out the vol- 
 umes to look at the edition or the binding, or to refresh his 
 eyes with the mere sight of the text, like one to the man- 
 ner born. John Carew was not only curious about this re- 
 markable journalist, but he was also by nature observant. 
 
 “This fellow,” he thought, “is not self-made, what- 
 ever else he is. That is abundantly clear; no self-made 
 man could handle a book like that. ” 
 
 An observation which shows that this young professor 
 may yet become a novelist. Because, you see, the self- 
 made man reveals his training, to those who have eyes to 
 see, by his manner of handling the tools of training. 
 What is the difference? It is hard to say. The man who 
 
116 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 has educated himself knows the value of books as much as 
 the man who 44 makes " himself knows the value of money; 
 he respects them and loves them as much as one who has 
 been schooled and taught from childhood up. Yet he can 
 not handle them with the same appearance of affection. 
 It is their contents he values. He is as one who loves hu- 
 manity for its virtues and its possibilities; the scholar is as 
 one who loves humanity for the same reason, but delights 
 to see his humans clothed daintily and behaving with 
 grace. Now, this Australian journalist showed the 
 scholar's handling. 
 
 66 There," George cried, taking down a volume. 44 This 
 is what we may call binding. This is how a book should 
 be appareled. There is ten times the pleasure of reading 
 a book with such a binding as this. " 
 
 64 Yes, I wish I had a thousand books bound by the 
 same man. You understand binding. " 
 
 46 1 used to think 1 did when I could prowl about a good 
 library. " 
 
 John Carew refrained from asking him when and where 
 that was. 
 
 44 In our quarter," said George, 44 there is not such a 
 thing as a bookseller; nobody buys books; as for bookbind- 
 ing, no one understands that there is such a thing as an 
 art of binding books." 
 
 They talked of other things. This talk lasted till ten at 
 night. John Carew discovered that of quite recent books 
 his new acquaintance knew nothing at all, but of older 
 books, say six years old at least, he knew and had read 
 everything that men do read and talk about — the books of 
 Darwin, of Herbert Spencer, the novels down to the year 
 1885 or thereabout, the poets down to that year — there has 
 not been much poetry since. It was as if for some reason 
 or other he had ceased to read about that year. 
 
 44 1 have read nothing of late," said George, when he 
 had betrayed complete ignorance of what had recently 
 
THE DEMOHIAC. 117 
 
 been written and said upon a certain subject. 44 It is now 
 nearly six years since I quite left off reading.” 
 
 44 Eeally? Quite left off reading?” 
 
 66 1 was traveling about the world, sailing among the 
 islands of the Pacific, and so was out of the way of books. 
 When the wandering years were over and there was no 
 more money left, one had to get work somehow — any 
 work that offered. The work that came to me was— what 
 you know. There are no libraries, no new books, no 
 magazines, and nobody to talk about books in my quarter.” 
 4 4 1 should have thought that you would have returned 
 with an insatiable thirst for books.” 
 
 64 No; when you have to dodge around for the day’s 
 dinner there is not much thirst left for anything else. Be- 
 sides, one easily forgets those tastes; one grows lethargic. 
 In your company some of the old enthusiasms may flash 
 up. Mostly, however, they are dead and gone.” 
 
 He spoke with a touch of sadness in his voice. 
 
 44 They can easily be revived,” said the professor. 
 44 Surely, surely a year or two of uncongenial work can not 
 have destroyed the fine taste, the scholarly instincts, the 
 scholarship itself. Why, you betray these things in every 
 word you utter.” 
 
 44 Only the smoldering fires — they are nearly destroyed.” 
 44 Then leave these lower levels and let these fires re- 
 vive.” 
 
 Nettie heard the talk with bewilderment. She under- 
 stood in a vague way that John Carew, of whose actual 
 position she had but vague ideas, was urging her husband 
 to leave low levels — low levels!— and go up higher. 
 
 44 I must stay where I am,” said George. 44 It is the 
 compulsion of necessity— force majeure — the hand of fate.” 
 44 No, no! there can be no such compulsion,” the pro- 
 fessor persisted. 44 A man like you can command better 
 work. It is a shame that you should be giving yourself 
 away to a trumpery local rag. You ought to be on the 
 
118 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 staff of a great paper. A man with so much knowledge of 
 men and manners, books and history, would be invaluable. 
 You ought to be making your thousand a year at least. ” 
 
 “ Oh, George!” said his wife. “ A thousand a year!” 
 “ You can not sit down contented with your present 
 work.” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” George replied. “ Perhaps 1 can do 
 no better. Being where I am and making enough for 
 actual wants, why should 1 worry?” 
 
 “Oh! But to stick down there — ” 
 
 “ It seems rather cowardly, doesn’t it? But 1 don’t 
 know. You see, in our fortunate quarter a certain happi- 
 ness not of a very high standard reigns in all hearts. • If I 
 should emerge we might lose this happiness.” 
 
 The professor laughed scornfully. 
 
 “ Shall we exchange the substance for the shadow?” 
 George went on. “ In the higher levels there is no con- 
 tentment, but every man fighting for more and the stand- 
 ard going up and up, until nothing less than the best of 
 everything satisfies anybody.” 
 
 “ You are not serious.” 
 
 “I am serious in this: that I mean to remain where I 
 am. As for getting better work, that may come subject 
 to the conditions of remaining where I am. You don’t 
 wish to leave your native quarter, Nettie? We will stay 
 where we are — alone, and contented with our own com- 
 pany.” 
 
 “ I would rather stay where we are,” said Nettie. 
 “ But 1 should like you to get work better suited to your 
 genius, George. And I should like to see a little more of 
 the world than we do.” 
 
 The professor clearly perceived that for some reason or 
 other , this man intended to remain in obscurity. I regret 
 to say that like certain members of Nettie’s family he be- 
 gan to suspect some reason of the baser kind for this de- 
 sire. It was absurd that a man still under thirty, so well 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 119 
 
 educated, so well read, apparently so well bred, should de- 
 sire the obscurity of such a life. Well, for Nettie’s sake 
 he hoped that it was nothing shameful that remained to be 
 found out. 
 
 When the visitors went away John Carew began to con- 
 sider what, if anything, could be done for this man. Those 
 who write for daily papers must be on the spot— in the 
 office — every day; they must see and consult the editor. 
 But there are certain weekly papers where this is not 
 necessary. Many men write for these papers from the 
 country. He knew a certain editor. To him he confided 
 the fact that he had found that rare creature, the retreat- 
 ing modest genius who desires nothing but to hide his head 
 away from the haunts of man. There have been known 
 such cases. The editor, interested, undertook to consider 
 anything that this unknown genius should send him. 
 Then John Carew went again to Daffodil Road and had an- 
 other talk. 
 
 44 Think,” he said. 44 No one asks you to stir from this 
 hermitage. No one will want to see you — all you have to 
 do is to furnish an article in the style suited to the paper, 
 on a subject that may interest the readers. Will you try? 
 It is certainly a long step above the local paper.” 
 
 George hesitated. 
 
 46 1 have ventured to interfere with your affairs,” said 
 John, 64 for the sake of my old friendship with your wife. 
 That is my only excuse. 1 see that you desire, for reasohs 
 of your own, to remain in obscurity. I do not ask those 
 reasons — only for your wife’s sake — ” 
 
 44 You are very good. Yes, thank you, I will have a 
 shot at this paper. If I succeed I am not bound or tied 
 down by any times or hours.” 
 
 44 None. But there is a good deal of work to be got on 
 such a paper — review work, politics, social matters. You 
 might succeed in getting so firm a footing in the paper 
 
120 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 that the editor would look for you as a regular contribu- 
 tor.” 
 
 A week later George had the pleasure of seeing a paper 
 by himself occupying a place of honor in small print and 
 in the middle. In the course of the next two months he 
 contributed half a dozen papers. Then, owing to certain 
 events which happened unexpectedly, this profitable and 
 honorable connection was broken off altogether, and now I 
 do not think it will ever be resumed. 
 
 The two men saw a great deahof each other during this 
 season. They became as intimate as is possible where one 
 man keeps an obstinate silence about his own people and 
 his early history. One resents this reticence except, per- 
 haps, in the case of a man whose people have been hanged, 
 or who has himself spent a term of years at Dartmoor. 
 We do not ask for confidence exactly, but we do not like 
 concealment. Such men may make plenty of acquaint- 
 ances, but of friends, few. Besides, why hide the fact of 
 poor relations? They are a nuisance to the man himself, 
 particularly if they want to borrow his money or be asked 
 to his dinners, but they are not a nuisance to his friends. 
 Not at all. His friends rather like to tell how the man 
 has one cousin who keeps a lodging-house, and another 
 who is matron at a school. George Humphrey said noth- 
 ing more about either himself or his antecedents. He was 
 an Australian, from Melbourne, so his wife said; he had 
 traveled and spent all his money, and so was obliged to do 
 what work he could get, so he himself had confessed. 
 WJiat John Carew himself perceived in addition to this was 
 that he was a man of culture, education, and good breed- 
 ing. In accepting his journalistic work, in marrying Net- 
 tie Patager, he had come down in the world. Had he done 
 something? Had he gone under because he must? Per- 
 haps. Poor Nettie! Best not to inquire further, lest ugly 
 things should be discovered and present happiness be de- 
 stroyed. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 121 
 
 In this way May passed into J une, J une into J uly, and 
 the two months* interval of virtue and temperance drew 
 toward its close. 
 
 44 If you will come to-morrow evening/* said the pro- 
 fessor one night, 44 1 will find the book and look out the 
 passage for you. I think it will clear up the point.** 
 
 44 To-morrow will do perfectly well/* said George. 44 1 
 will turn up about eight o*clock.** 
 
 44 My dear/* said Nettie, “pray do not make any en- 
 gagements after to-morrow. Remember it is your Boston 
 week.** 
 
 George changed color. He grew red and then pale. 
 
 44 1 had almost forgotten/* he said. 44 Well, for to-mor- 
 row evening, at least, 1 am _ free. The day after I may 
 have to go away on business.** 
 
 44 He has business that takes him to Boston once every 
 two months.** 
 
 44 Boston/* asked the professor. 44 1 thought that Bos- 
 ton was extinct, dead and gone. I had an idea that it died 
 in giving birth to the new Boston. There can be but one 
 Boston.** 
 
 44 Oh!** said George, 44 the old Boston lives still. There 
 is a good deal of business in a quiet way at Boston. Mine 
 is business which, as it happens, no one can manage except 
 myself. I don*t like it — I find it a great nuisance going 
 away for two or three days. It is an interruption. Still, 
 it brings in money. And we can not afford to give up 
 regular work, can we, Nettie?** 
 
 44 1 hate it/* said his wife. 44 It takes him away from 
 me; it worries him beforehand; I can see him thinking 
 about it; he gets fidgety sometimes days before the time, 
 and sometimes he comes back looking so pale and shaky 
 that it is evident how hard they work him. I believe he 
 works all day and all night. ** 
 
 , “All night sometimes/* saicf George, with a smile. 
 
122 
 
 THE' DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Can’t you give it up?” said the professor. 44 Will 
 not the new work take its place?” 
 
 “ I can not possibly give it up. I am under no positive 
 engagement, but yet I must not give it up. It is, I con- 
 fess, a great trouble and interruption, and the work — the 
 work- — is uncongenial, and in many ways it is some- 
 times — ” He lost command of himself for the moment. 
 44 It is intolerable, but it can’t be given up.” 
 
 His face clouded over. Conversation was stopped. The 
 professor said good-night. 
 
 64 George dear,” Nettie twined her arms round his arm, 
 “you were angry to-night about this Boston business. 
 Why do you let it worry you? Give it up, dear — we can 
 make plenty of money without it. Oh! I have always 
 hated it more and more, and now I can’t bear to see you 
 going off with that horrid man, looking miserable when 
 you start and coming home pale and shaken. 1 am always 
 thinking about it. Can’t you give it up?” 
 
 “ No, dear, I can never give it up. Never — now. I 
 might perhaps if I had had the courage five years ago.” 
 He dropped his voice. 46 But now — never— my dear. Let 
 us make the best of it.” 
 
 44 And with such a man! I hate the sight of Mr. Mavis. 
 He looks like a worm with his white, smooth face and his 
 down-dropped eyes. A man who can not even look you 
 in the face. Give it up, dear. Think of what John 
 Carew keeps on saying, and give it up.” 
 
 He kissed her sadly, but made no reply. 
 
 44 Business in Boston!” said John Carew to himself, on 
 the way home. 44 Business in Boston every two months, 
 for a literary man — wonderful! Business which makes him 
 wretched before and shaky after it. Business which he 
 can not possibly give up. Now, if I were in the Gaboriau 
 line, I would go to Boston and find out what could be the 
 business which takes a journalist there once in two 
 months. This is the secret of Mr. George Humphrey’s 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 123 
 
 retreat to the back seat of suburban journalism. This is 
 the skeleton in the cupboard. Business in Boston-— why 
 does he say Boston? I don't believe he goes to Boston. Yet 
 business of some kind — of a regular kind, of an unpleasant 
 kind, and of a kind which must be done. I think it would 
 not be difficult to find out where his business lies and of 
 what kind it is. Any man may be watched— such a big 
 man would find it very difficult to escape detection. Yet 
 — no, Nettie— though I should like to discover the mys- 
 tery, for your sake, my old friend, I will not seek to dis- 
 turb your happiness." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HE IS ALIVE. 
 
 In the morning, among the letters, John Carew found on 
 his table one from Elinor Thanet. It reminded him of a 
 task laid upon him in which he had as yet taken no steps 
 at all. In fact, it was a task which he proposed to shirk, 
 because he had no great desire that the young lady's lost 
 lover should be traced. To find him might mean the 
 awakening of certain old emotions. He would rather wait, 
 watch, and be patient until the day, now certainly not far 
 distant, when she should herself own that the time had- 
 come when she might consider herself free. 
 
 The letter gave him a disagreeable reminder of neglected 
 duty. 
 
 46 My dear Friend," she wrote, 66 1 once asked you to 
 help me in finding that long-lost lover of mine. I do not 
 know if you have made any attempt, or if you have met 
 with any success in your search. But you would have told 
 me if you had. Now I have something for you to go upon. 
 He is in this country. He has quite lately been at Bright- 
 on. He may be there now. He was in Brighton three 
 days ago. A letter has been received from him, in his 
 
124 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 own handwriting, which is unmistakable. I inclose a copy 
 of it. The check which it inclosed has been honored as he 
 directs by his agents. We have all felt the greatest relief 
 that he is really living. We now hope to find out very 
 soon where he is and why he went away, and what he has 
 been doing all this time. The Mystery of George Atheling 
 would serve for the title of a shilling shocker. I am now 
 wiser than I was when he deserted me. Things which 
 would then appear to my inexperienced eyes impossible 
 now seem probable, because I have learned that they were 
 common, and I believe that he left me because he had 
 fallen in love with somebody else. Further than this I 
 can not get. For if he married that other girl he would 
 have wanted money to maintain her. But he has drawn 
 no money for three years. All his money has been ac- 
 cumulating. This check is the only one that has been 
 drawn; it is for a large amount; but then I suppose it 
 represents the expenditure of three years. I put all kinds 
 of suppositions before myself. 1 suppose that he may 
 have been in some madhouse, or in some foreign country, 
 but I can not tell what to think. Give me, if you can, a 
 little of your thought. Advise me. Find my old friend 
 for me. 
 
 “ Yours, very sincerely, 
 
 “ Elinor.” 
 
 John Carew read this letter with satisfaction. She had 
 no longer any love for this old friend of hers; that was 
 plain. Well, what was he to do? 
 
 The letter inclosed was very plain and simple: 
 
 “ Gentlemen, —Will you kindly pay to the account of 
 Mr. Joseph Mavis, Union Bank of London, Tottenham 
 Branch, the sum of five thousand pounds, for which I in- 
 close a check on my own bank. 
 
 44 Yours, very truly, 
 
 “ G. H. Atheling.” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 125 
 
 The letter was, of course, only a copy. The address 
 given was at a Brighton hotel and not one of the best. 
 And though the letter, was dated three or four days back, 
 the check was dated at the end of May. 
 
 He began the search at once. First he went to the law- 
 yers, Mr. Atheling’s agents. He found that they had car- 
 ried out the instructions. The money had been paid to the 
 account of one Joseph Mavis, at Tottenham. 
 
 “ Who is Joseph Mavis?” asked the professor. 
 
 44 He is described as a gentleman living in the neighbor- 
 hood. He brought an introduction from some local trades- 
 men — probably he is himself a tradesman of some kind — ” 
 44 It seems very mysterious. Have you sent down to 
 Brighton?” 
 
 44 We have written, but have as yet received no answer. ” 
 44 Should you feel justified in advertising?” 
 
 The lawyer hesitated. It is doubtful as yet whether we 
 should. Let us first wait for the answer to our letter. 
 We wrote to ask for an appointment.” 
 
 44 You ought to have had an answer before this. Stay, 
 it is now half past ten. I will catch the next train to 
 Brighton and will go myself for an answer. Give me a 
 letter of introduction.” 
 
 The hotel named in the letter was one of these small 
 places in the upper and less attractive part of the town — 
 called somebody’s arms — a house of call for local trades- 
 men rather than a place for a gentleman to put up. John 
 Carew went in and asked for Mr. Atheling. There was 
 nobody of that name in the hotel. A letter for a gentle- 
 man of that name was waiting in the rack. 
 
 44 But,” said John, 44 we have had a letter from Mr. 
 George Atheling giving the address of this hotel.” 
 
 This fact nobody could explain. 
 
 44 Has anybody at all been staying here lately?” 
 
 44 There was a gentleman.” said the chamber-maid. 
 
126 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ He was here a week and went away three days ago — Mr. 
 Mavis his name was.” * 1 
 
 “ Mr. Joseph Mavis?” 
 
 “ I don't know, sir. He did not leave his Christian 
 name.” 
 
 This was an important fact, however. No Atheling had 
 been there at all. But Mavis had — and Mavis, therefore, 
 to whom the money was payable, had posted and probably 
 dated the letter of instructions. Atheling, meantime, who 
 had drawn the check two months before was not with him. 
 Yet the letter of instructions addressed at this hotel was 
 dated three days before. 
 
 John Carew came back to town with this news. 
 
 “ Now,” he said, summing up, “ this man writes a let- 
 ter; the handwriting is, you say, undoubtedly his own; an- 
 other hand puts an address and a date to it. The address 
 is false and so is the date, because the check is dated two 
 months before. Where is the man who wrote the letter 
 and drew the check? Why was the false address given? 
 Who and what is the man named Mavis?” 
 
 66 That we can find out very easily, I take it.” 
 
 66 Are we not gone far enough to advertise — there is 
 nothing like an advertisement. Advertise in all the papers 
 simultaneously. Do this first, while you go on finding out 
 who this man Mavis is. Are there any distinctive features 
 by which Atheling can be recognized?” 
 
 “ Well, yes — he is the kind of man who could be de- 
 scribed so that recognition would be certain.” 
 
 44 Let us offer a reward, then; a good big reward; a 
 hundred pounds reward for such information as will lead 
 to his discovery. The papers are sure to take it up — 
 within twenty-four hours the whole country will be on the 
 lookout for the man.” 
 
 This arranged, John Carew could do no more. He 
 wrote to Elinor and reported what he had done. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 127 
 
 It was by this time evening and his friend, George 
 Humphrey, was to call in an hour or two. He took a 
 hasty dinner at the club and hurried back to his room. 
 
 The talk flagged that evening. George Humphrey was 
 gloomy. The other man was occupied with the difficulties 
 of the situation. 
 
 44 1 must tell you// he said at last. 46 1 can think of 
 nothing else.” 
 
 44 What is it?” 
 
 44 1 am trying to discover a man who has vanished, and 
 I fear there has been villainy.” 
 
 44 A man who has vanished — who is the man?” 
 
 44 He is a man — his name matters nothing — yet it will 
 be in all the papers to-morrow. His name is Atheling — 
 George Atheling ” — he was so much interested in his story 
 that he did not observe the sudden change in his com- 
 panion’s face. 
 
 44 Atheling,” George repeated. 
 
 44 This is the story. He was engaged to a young lady — 
 then almost a girl. He was a wealthy man. He had 
 everything that any man can hope to have. He was 
 young, rich, healthy, strong, clever, highly cultivated, 
 and apparently with a great future before him. Yet he 
 disappeared suddenly.” 
 
 44 Why?” 
 
 44 Nobody knows.” 
 
 44 Nobody? Did not the girl herself ever tell why he 
 went away?” 
 
 44 She never knew — she could not so much as guess. 
 He vanished. That is all we know. It was discovered 
 Jffiat two years later he drew some money. Then he van- 
 ished again, and this time altogether.” 
 
 44 Were not any of his companions found to tell where 
 he had been?” 
 
 44 No public inquiry was ever made and no search in- 
 
128 THE DEMON r AC. 
 
 stituted. Therefore we don't even know who his com- 
 panions were." 
 
 “ But the girl. Did he not write to the girl? Surely, 
 he must have written one letter — just one, only to explain. 
 Men don't leave girls suddenly without some sort of an ex- 
 planation." 
 
 “ He made none." 
 
 “ Oh!" George looked surprised, as if he knew some- 
 thing— that is to say, John Carew remembered afterward 
 — too late— this look of surprise. 
 
 “ It appears, you see, that the girl and her lover had 
 some kind of a quarrel— she told him he was not himself 
 — he was somehow changed — it may have been nothing — a 
 fit of indisposition — she bade him go away and not come 
 back until he could recover his lost energies. So he went 
 — but she added, unfortunately for herself, that she should 
 continue to remain bound to him till he should, when re- 
 turned to his right mind, release her; and she continues to 
 consider herself bound to him to this day." 
 
 “Oh! but this is pure absurdity." 
 
 “As 1 tell her. Such, however, is the fact. Now 
 comes the important thing. We have at last discovered 
 that he is still alive or that he was alive a month or two 
 ago." 
 
 “ Indeed? How? Has he been seen?" 
 
 “ No. His lawyer received, however, two or three days 
 ago, a letter from him — " 
 
 “ From him?" 
 
 “ From him. Unmistakably in his handwriting. It 
 was dated from a small hotel at Brighton. It contained a 
 large check and it ordered the lawyers to pay this into a 
 certain account. " 
 
 “Oh! this is very mysterious." George was entering 
 thoroughly into the mystery of the situation. “Very 
 strange and interesting, indeed. He wrote from Bright- 
 on?" 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 129 
 
 “ Yes. Now,, the check was dated some weeks before 
 the letter. The instructions were carried out, and the 
 young lady has been informed that her former lover is still 
 living. She asked me to assist in finding him. I went 
 down to Brighton, and found that the man had never been 
 at the hotel at all, unless he was there under a false 
 name.” 
 
 “You are sure that there was a check? Yes— for how 
 much£” 
 
 “ It was a large check. For five thousand pounds.” 
 
 “ For five thousand pounds? The letter and the check 
 were both in his handwriting? You are sure of this?” 
 
 “The lawyers were quite sure upon the point. What 
 do you think? That a crime has been committed?” 
 
 “ A crime — of some kind,” he replied. He shivered, 
 he turned pale, he remained in silence for awhile. The 
 other man thought he was turning the problem over in his 
 own mind. 
 
 “I suppose,” he said, “that there will now be more 
 checks drawn, and continually more.” 
 
 “The man may spend his own money as he pleases — 
 cm he not?” 
 
 “ Certainly. Oh, certainly! Well, it will last a good 
 while, that is one comfort. ” 
 
 “Yes. It will take a good many checks to exhaust that 
 little pile.” 
 
 “What did you say you propose to do? You have 
 formed some plan?” 
 
 “We must find him, wherever he is. That seems a 
 clear duty. ” 
 
 “ You think so?” 
 
 “ Certainly, we must find him. At present it looks as 
 if he might be in somebody^ power. He signs a check 
 for a very large sum. He writes a letter which he neither 
 addresses nor dates. Perhaps he is all the time miserably 
 
 5 
 
130 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 locked up in a madhouse, in the hands of some villain — 
 but we know nothing. It is a mystery which must be 
 cleared up. Remember, he is rich. Those who have him 
 in their power may mean to keep him until they can get 
 the last farthing out of him. He has friends who have 
 not forgotten him, and he has heirs who are interested in 
 seeing that his estates are not robbed. You are a man of 
 the world, Humphrey. Can you suggest anything?” 
 
 44 I should like to know your own ideas first.” 
 
 “ I think we should advertise. We should advertise a 
 description of the man as he looked when he was last seen: 
 how he was dressed, color of his eyes and hair, size and 
 shape of him, any marks, and so forth. ” 
 
 66 Do you yourself know what he is like? Have you a 
 description of him?” 
 
 44 No. But the lawyer people at the office say that they 
 can describe him so that it would be perfectly easy to find 
 him. They were doubtful about it at first, because, you 
 see, it is rather an awkward thing to advertise for your 
 clients. But this discovery that he has never been to 
 Brighton at all, and that the letter was wrongly addressed 
 and dated, has frightened them, and they now seem ready 
 to go on until they find out. What do you think?” 
 
 44 I think,” said George, rising, 44 that you are quite cer~ 
 tain to find out where he is if you do advertise — and that 
 before many hours. But, instead of advertising, I should, 
 if I were you, do nothing at all. Consider, he has written 
 a letter to his lawyer. This may prove the intention of 
 letting it be known that he is, at least, alive. If he is a 
 wise man he will, from time to time, let his former friends 
 and his agents know that he is living. But when a man 
 voluntarily goes away and disappears, there must be rea- 
 sons — good reasons. This man would seem to have drawn 
 no money. The conclusions that may be drawn from this 
 fact are many. One is quite clear, he does not wish his 
 new way of life to be known. The man, you say, is a gen- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 131 
 
 tleman — why not respect his wishes — certainly the harm- 
 less wishes — of this gentleman?” 
 
 Some men. might have suspected the truth. There are 
 not so many gentlemen and scholars in the lower walks. 
 But John Oarew had so made up his mind this man was an 
 Australian, that he did not suspect. Whan he did arrive 
 at, however; was something very near the truth. 
 
 44 Humphrey,” he said, 44 you speak from your own ex- 
 perience. 1 have long suspected this. You have yourself 
 broken with your friends in Australia. You no longer 
 communicate with your own people. You have chosen to 
 disappear.” 
 
 44 For very good reasons, perhaps the very same reasons 
 as those which drove that other man out of sight. Yes, 
 you are quite right. I need not ask you to respect my 
 secret. But, since you are willing to understand my posi- 
 tion, can you not also understand that the other man's 
 may be exactly the same — complicated by the addition of 
 this great fortune which he may be unwilling to assume 
 again, either for himself or for, his family?” 
 
 44 Yes, I see. I will think it over. After all, if we can 
 only get tidings of his welfare and an assurance that he is 
 a free agent, that should be enough.” 
 
 44 1 thinkjt should be enough. A discovery might, it is 
 conceivable, do him a very serious injury. For instance, 
 take my case, your surmise is quite correct; 1 have cous- 
 ins here in England in a very good position. It would not 
 please them to find me where and what I am, nor would it 
 make my wife and the children, when they grow up, any 
 the happier for knowing where they might have been, but 
 for reasons. You know the motto of the Courtenays — Ubi 
 lapsus (very bad Latin) — it should be mine, it may be 
 Atheling's. ” 
 
 44 Yes. 1 think that we have been, perhaps, too hasty. 
 I will try to stop that advertisement at once.” 
 
 In fact he did try. Unfortunately, he was too late. 
 
132 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 46 Let me see you again soon. Can we meet to-morrow 
 or next day? In such a case as this a third person —a 
 totally uninterested person like yourself — ” 
 
 4 4 Yes/ 5 said George, calmly. 
 
 “May be of the greatest service. ” 
 
 “Unfortunately/’ George replied, “ 1 am engaged for 
 two or three days ahead. 1 must go out of town. 1 have 
 certain business to look after — at Boston.” 
 
 Next day Elinor received a letter without any address 
 which bore the postmark of Kensington — a good central 
 postmark. She knew the writing. 
 
 “ At last,” she cried, and tore open the letter. 
 
 “ My dear Elinor, — Five years ago I wrote a letter in 
 which I told you exactly the reasons why I had changed so 
 greatly in two or three months. I did not bind you to 
 secrecy, but so far as I have been able to learn you have 
 kept these reasons a secret. I expected some reply, but 
 after waiting some time I concluded that I should have 
 none. As an opportunity now occurs to write you again, 
 and as 1 have learned that you are still unmarried, if that 
 fact has any connection with me, 1 most earnestly beg that 
 it may at once cease. My letter, indeed, gave you your 
 release freely, and from that moment I can not believe 
 that you could misunderstand it. 1 remain always, with 
 friendly and affectionate memories, your old friend, 
 
 “G. A.” 
 
 “ At last he has written,” said Elinor. “ It is his hand- 
 writing — it was written yesterday. But he tells me noth- 
 ing. Well — I am free — of course 1 was free before, when- 
 ever 1 pleased, and I think I am pleased now. 1 have had 
 my freedom long enough. What does he mean about a 
 former letter? Oh! he is mad. I believe he was mad then 
 — I believe he has been mad ever since. George must 
 have been locked up in some foreign madhouse.” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BUSINESS AT BOSTON. 
 
 George Humphrey sat with his wife in the little slip of 
 a garden behind the toy villa. It was blossoming as finely 
 as if it belonged to a great house. Allow for certain well- 
 known limitations of the London air and you may make a 
 suburban garden bright with flowers in the leafy months 
 of July and August. Lilies, nasturtium, mignonette, the 
 blue lobelia, hardy annuals by the dozen will adorn the 
 narrow bit of ground. The children were in bed. The 
 sun had gone down. It was nearly nine o'clock, but there 
 was still plenty of light. 
 
 Husband and wife sat hand in hand. They were silent; 
 their looks were melancholy; forebodings filled the mind 
 of one; he saw that the thing, long expected, had at last 
 arrived; his servant, who for five years robbed him secret- 
 ly, was now beginning to rob him without concealment. 
 He knew how the letter must have been written and the 
 check signed, by whose dictation and what circumstances. 
 Once begun, the thing would be repeated. He had known 
 since the experience of the voyage that he was in the hands 
 of a perfectly unscrupulous and calculating person. So 
 long as this person did what he was paid to do, that mat- 
 tered nothing. Not until now had he realized how com- 
 pletely he had fallen into the man's power. And he was 
 coming again. That very evening he would come. At 
 the thought of the orgy which would follow and the com- 
 panionship of this creature his soul sunk within him. One 
 way out of it. Yet he had long forgotten the very possi- 
 bility of this way. 
 
 “My dear," said Nettie, timidly, “ have you thought 
 any more of what John Carew said? I mean that you 
 
134 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 should give up all the lower kind of work and go in alto- 
 gether for the best journalism.” 
 
 “ Yes — I have thought of it, Nettie. 1 am always 
 thinking of it.” 
 
 “ It has made me so proud to see your papers in the 
 ‘ Review 9 week after week. Even my father, who is so 
 dead set against the profession, acknowledged that there 
 was something to be proud of in being connected with such 
 a paper. If you could only keep to that kind of work 
 alone. Then I have had more talk with John Carew — all 
 about you, dear. He says that you have seen so much of 
 the world and had so many experiences that you ought to 
 write a splendid novel. Think of that, dear!” 
 
 “ An autobiography? Yes; I might write a powerful 
 autobiography.” 
 
 46 Well, dear, why not? The children should learn to 
 be proud of their father. I know how clever he is. Let 
 them know, too. Let all the world know. Oh, since we 
 have been to John Carew’s chambers and talked with him 
 the world seems to have changed. Why, I can understand 
 what makes men discontented. Our young men are 
 brought up to believe that there is nothing possible for 
 them but to become clerks. They have no ambition even 
 to make themselves rich. But other men — young men 
 like John Carew— talk as if there was nothing in life worth 
 anything except ambition.” 
 
 “There isn’t— much.” 
 
 “ And yet for three years you have been contented to sit 
 down here and toil for next to nothing for that wretched 
 local paper. ' And you know the world. How could you 
 do it? Why, George! When I knew no better I wanted 
 no better. But you always knew and yet you were con- 
 tented. You were even happy. How could you, George? 
 Was it because? you had married me?” 
 
 “ My dear, it was because 1 could not get rid of that 
 
THE DEM OKI AC. 135 
 
 other Me — myself— Me. You helped me to become con- 
 tented.” 
 
 She shook her head. Who was the other Me? 
 
 ‘‘Give up this Boston business/ 5 she urged again. 
 “ Give that up, and I believe all would be right again.” 
 
 44 Perhaps it would. Yet I can not give it up. ” 
 
 44 I feel sure that it stands in your way. If you gave it 
 up you might go among gentlemen again. Why are 
 you afraid of going among gentlemen? You are a gentle- 
 man yourself— I have known it all along — you are as su- 
 perior to my brothers as John Carew is. You belong to 
 his set, not to ours. I can see it in the difference of your 
 manners when you are with him. You are with an equal. 
 With the men here you can not disguise that you are their 
 superior. How could you ever marry me?’ 5 
 He patted her cheek but said nothing. 
 
 44 George, 1 should like our boys to be gentlemen, too, 
 unless their mother stands in the way — ” 
 
 44 No, Nettie, no. It is their father.” 
 
 44 They are the sons of a gentleman. Won’t you give 
 them their right place — won’t you sacrifice this — whatever 
 it is that stands in their way, for the sake of your wife and 
 children?” 
 
 The man sat silent. He heard another voice besides— a 
 voice of three years agone — the voice of the physician who 
 warned him. 
 
 44 There is no other chance. It is that for the sake of 
 some person — out of some great affection — you may arm 
 yourself with resolution enough to fight the thing.” 
 
 The voice spoke not quite clearly. He looked down upon 
 his wife’s comely head; he stooped and kissed it— 44 1 ivill 
 give up the cursed thing,” he said. 44 Whatever happens, 
 I will give it up. I will go back to my old friends. Your 
 boys, my dear, shall be gentlemen as their father was when 
 he began the world.” 
 
136 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “George! You will? You promise faithfully?” She 
 caught his hand and kissed it. 
 
 “ I promise faithfully — ” He raised his head and saw 
 at the head of the garden steps the man whom he was ex- 
 pecting. “I promise, my dear. I go to Boston for the 
 last time. 1 must make my arrangements to wind up the 
 business. Then 1 shall come home. For the last time. 
 You have seen Mavis for the last time.” 
 
 He kissed her and ran up the steps. 
 
 Five minutes later he was gone. 
 
 “ But,” said his wife, “ it is for the last time. That 
 dreadful man will come here no more.” 
 
 Like many men, George Humphrey^ habits were such 
 as to require the services of somebody to put his dressing- 
 room in order after every visit he made to that apartment. 
 The wife ran up to perform the duty. The drawers were 
 open, most of the contents were lying on the floor or on 
 the single chair. George had been putting a few things in 
 his bag. 
 
 She began to pick up the things and to put them back. 
 In a few minutes the room was in order again. The last 
 thing she picked up was an old overcoat which hung from 
 the wall. 
 
 “ George never wears this,” she said. “ 1 have never 
 seen him put it on. It 5 s quite an old thing, too. It only 
 takes up room. 1 will put it with the next bundle that 
 goes. It will bring in something. ” She began to search 
 the pockets, a precaution observed both by those who sell 
 old clothes and by those who buy them. Money has been 
 found forgotten in the pockets. 1 believe that it is at 
 Guy’s that there lingers a traditional romance or romantic 
 tradition of a student who was reduced to his last gasp and 
 on the point of renouncing his career when he discovered 
 in the left-hand pocket of a forgotten reach-me-down a 
 whole sovereign. He remained at the hospital and became 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 137 
 
 a baronet, his son became a baron, and his grandson an 
 earl. And the romance remains for the comfort of all 
 penniless students. 
 
 There was no money in this overcoat. It belonged to 
 the days when George had a valet, which accounts for the 
 fact, but in the breast-pocket there was a letter. She 
 drew it out. The letter was in an envelope stamped and 
 ready to be posted. It was too dark to read the address. 
 
 Nettie carried the letter down-stairs— thinking to give it 
 to her husband in the morning. But when she had lighted 
 a candle she read the address. Miss Thanet — who was 
 Miss Thanet? 
 
 The envelope which had lain in that pocket for five 
 years showed signs of wear. The coat had been put on 
 and thrown off a hundred times, but the letter had never 
 been discovered. It had traveled all round the world. It 
 had been hanging up in the dressing-room. Nettie herself 
 had taken it down, brushed it a dozen times, but the letter 
 lay there undiscovered. 
 
 Nettie read the superscription once more. 
 
 1 think that up to that moment she had never felt the 
 smallest jealousy of her husband. Now, therefore, when 
 jealousy awoke full grown in her heart, it was accompanied 
 by curiosity. Under these influences, which caused her 
 eyes to glow and her lip to stiffen, she tore open the en- 
 velope and read the letter. You have seen it once. Read 
 it again. 
 
 66 My dear Nellie,— You told me on Monday to re- 
 turn to you, when I could go back in the guise and sem- 
 blance of your old friend. I denied at the time your 
 charge that something must have happened. 1 will tell 
 you plainly what has happened. I have become in the 
 short space of four months one of those unhappy men 
 whom I was wont to despise, called confirmed drunkards! 
 I kept from you all the summer, hoping that the habit 
 
138 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 would pass away. It has not passed away. It is, on the 
 contrary, stronger than ever, and now I believe that 1 shall 
 be a slave for life. If it is any excuse I might plead that 
 the vice is hereditary, but the physician whom I have con- 
 sulted will not allow that this is an excuse. The real fault 
 is my now disgraceful cowardice. I went to you the other 
 day resolved upon telling you the exact truth. I could 
 not. Thereupon 1 insulted, pained you beyond endurance. 
 You said that you should continue to regard yourself as 
 engaged to me until I gave you release. Take your re- 
 lease. You are free. Forget me as soon as you can, and 
 do not blame me more than you can help. 
 
 “I am going to try the effect of a long sea voyage. If 
 that succeeds — which I doubt — I will visit you on my return 
 as an old friend, no longer a lover. If it does not succeed 
 1 shall never write to you or see you again. 
 
 “George Humphrey Atheling.” 
 
 The letter she read through once, twice, three times. 
 Jealousy sunk back abashed and cowed, curiosity hung her 
 meddlesome head. In the presence of this terrible confes- 
 sion both those passions slunk away and vanished. The 
 concluding paragraph, with the signature, passed before 
 her eyes unseen. She read nothing but the awful avowal 
 of a confirmed and habitual drunkard. 
 
 “ Oh!” she thought — if her thoughts could be put into 
 words, a process which deprives them of swiftness, of brill- 
 iancy, of eloquence, and of persuasion. “ I know now. 
 He goes mad for drink. This explains everything. He 
 has run away from all his friends, so they should never 
 find it out for the very shame of it. He lives apart from 
 them because they won't let him live with them, and the 
 man Mavis is nothing but his keeper, who is paid to take 
 care of him when he has a fit. He has one coming on 
 now. He goes somewhere with this man and stays until the 
 fit is over. The business in Boston is to get drunk with- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 139 
 
 out anybody knowing it. Oh! George— George — my poor 
 husband! My poor dear! My poor dear!” 
 
 What should she do? 
 
 The first thought of such a woman so brought up is for 
 the daily bread of her children. Those who have never 
 known the peril of such poverty as lessens the daily bread 
 do not begin by thinking of such a thing. The daughter 
 of the small clerk thinks of it always. She has had actual 
 experience either of her own or of friends in this direction. 
 She has either felt or witnessed others feeling the actual 
 pinch of unsatisfied hunger. Was the daily bread of her 
 children in danger? W r ell, for those three years of her 
 marriage there had always been enough and more than 
 enough. Business at Boston had never, so far, interfered 
 with the supplies. 
 
 Then she thought of other things, but in no proper 
 sequence. A well-ordered mind would, 1 dare say, con- 
 sider the degradation of the man first of all. Nettie did 
 not. She considered the triumph of her mother and sister 
 when the thing was found out — if it should be found out. 
 And this thought filled her with rage and shame. She 
 pictured her father, grave, but not dissatisfied to find that 
 his prejudice against journalists was justified. Also the 
 malicious joy of Jier brother Horatio, himself too much 
 addicted to the cheerful glass and the convivial bar. 
 
 Business at Boston. That meant, she was perfectly cer- 
 tain, business' at Mavis's house. She knew his address. 
 Her husband gave it to her once, with the injunction that 
 if he should at any time be taken ill she was to send for 
 Mavis at once in order to get business of an important 
 kind arranged. Suppose she was to go there as well. She 
 might get into the house; she might bring her husband 
 home safely. She might at least satisfy herself about these 
 suspicions. 
 
 It was about half past nine. She called her single serv- 
 ant. “ Lam going out with the master,” she said. “It 
 
140 
 
 THE DEMOUNT AC. 
 
 may be quite late before I get back. Take both the chil- 
 dren into your own room.” 
 
 Then she put on her hat and jacket and sallied forth. 
 
 Within ten minutes* walk she came to the great high- 
 road running north to Tottenham and Enfield and what- 
 ever lies beyond. In this high-road there are frequent 
 tram-cars. She got into one of them and was borne north- 
 ward. 
 
 Mr. Mavis occupied a cottage standing in its own 
 grounds in the broad valley of the river Lea, near Totten- 
 ham. Though the town of Tottenham has been ruined 
 and spoiled worse than any other suburban town, by the 
 erection of rows and terraces of hideous houses, there are 
 places where some of the old houses — not the great old 
 houses but the little cottages— may still be found. This 
 house, built of the old red brick and surrounded by a high 
 red brick wall, stood in the middle of a really spacious 
 garden among trees; a cottage quite secluded and shut in. 
 It was the last in the road, and beyond it was the low-lying 
 meadows on either side of the Lea. 
 
 The cottage was for the most part unoccupied. No 
 servant lived there and no care-taker; no gardener attend- 
 ed to cut the grass and attend to the flower beds — the 
 place was deserted save that once in awhile there were seen 
 lights and voices were heard. Yet it was tenanted; the 
 rent and the rates and taxes were paid with regularity. 
 It was said that a misanthropist lived here all by himself; 
 he was a hermit; he was a miser; he was a criminal; no 
 one knew who he was or what. Such tenants, so un- 
 known, so mysterious, are not uncommon in London. 
 For instance, there was a set of chambers in a certain inn 
 some years ago let to a man whose name was over the 
 door. The name remained over the door for twenty years, 
 during which the tenant never once came to the rooms, 
 nor did any one else, nor were the rooms entered. At the 
 end of that time there was occasion to take up the floor for 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 141 
 
 some gas pipes. It was found that the rooms were abso- 
 lutely bare and unfurnished. Why had the tenant taken 
 those rooms? 
 
 Nettie found the place with little difficulty. She pushed 
 open the gate and walked in, her courage rather failing 
 her as the time for action approached. 
 
 There was no light in the front of the house. She 
 walked across the long rank grass of the neglected lawn. 
 The air was heavy with the fragrance of mignonette* 
 honeysuckle and all the flowers of midsummer. 
 
 She stood in the porch and listened. She heard the 
 voices of men disputing. Her husband was there, then. 
 She recognized his voice. 
 
 She stole round to the back of the house. There was a 
 light on the ground floor. But a white blind was pulled 
 down and she could see ndthing. She listened, but the 
 men talked in a low tone. She could distinguish nothing. 
 She went back to the porch. She would knock at the 
 door and call her husband out. Feeling for the knocker, 
 she became aware that the door yielded. It was not shut. 
 She opened it cautiously and looked in. Everything was 
 dark, but the shadows defined themselves. She saw that 
 the little hall was empty, for a light shone through the 
 key-hole and under a door. 
 
 She stepped lightly across the hall, afraid of creaking 
 boards. 
 
 Then she stooped — the thing has been often done be- 
 fore; it is almost classical; at such a moment, and under 
 such circumstances one is prepared to defend it; if it is 
 necessary to find out what is going on in a room it is often 
 the only way; Nettie wanted very much to know; it was 
 necessary that she should know; the thing was too terrible 
 not to be faced; therefore she stooped and — she looked 
 through the key-hole. 
 
 Yes. Her husband was there, and the man Mavis. 
 
142 
 
 THE DEM OK I AC. 
 
 The table was covered with bottles, tumblers, jugs of 
 water and bottles of soda potash and seltzer. 
 
 44 1 tell you/ 5 said George, 44 that the time has come to 
 make a stand. To-night, you say it is the night when the 
 devil is due. I feel nothing. 1 am sober. 1 have no 
 thirst upon me at all. I believe that if you had not 
 come— 55 
 
 “lam paid to come. 55 
 
 66 1 should not have been troubled at all. I believe you 
 call the devil up — 55 
 
 44 He would come without any calling from me. Why, 
 now, 55 said Mavis, 64 before a quarter of an hour-r-be- 
 fore 55 — he watched his masters face keenly— 44 before five 
 — three minutes are out you will have a tickling in the 
 throat, then a dryness, next a hot and dry tickling, and 
 then — 55 
 
 44 Damn you, 55 said George, 44 you have called the devil, 
 and he has come. Let me have air and I will fight him. 55 
 
 He pulled up the blind and threw the window wide open. 
 
 Nettie reflected that it would be safer and easier to look 
 through the window than through the key-hole. Moreover, 
 she would be able to see more. She therefore abandoned 
 her position and stole out of the house and so round to the 
 back. Her husband was leaning out of the window 
 breathing the fresh air as if for coolness. 44 Oh! 55 she 
 thought, 44 1 might throw my arm round his neck and 
 drag him away. 55 
 
 It is a pity, perhaps, that she did not. But too often 
 we let pass the first thought, which is always the right 
 thought, free from cowardice, pure from any unworthy 
 motives. She did not throw her arms about him and woo 
 him away. She took up a position under an ash-tree, not 
 too far from the window. The long branches fell round 
 her like a veil. She held back the leaves, and could see 
 and hear as well as if she were in the room. 
 
 Her husband left the window and began to pace the 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 143 
 
 room restlessly. It was a den of a room. There was a 
 small table of the commonest kind; one wooden arm-chair 
 was at the head of the table, another at one side; the first 
 was empty, on the second sat the man Mavis. The only 
 other furniture in the room was a great sofa — long enough 
 and broad enough, Nettie observed, even for her great 
 giant of a husband. The place was dirty, unswept, un- 
 washed. 
 
 “ This evening,” said George, 64 1 shall fight him for 
 the first time. If I fight him once only I shall defeat him 
 forever. Villain! Scoundrel!” He meant Mavis, not 
 the devil. “ If it had not been for you I should have 
 fought him on the voyage five years ago. But for you!” 
 
 66 If it had not been for me you \yould be lying dead at 
 the bottom of the sea. Fight him, indeed! You fight 
 him!” 
 
 “ And you have made me draw a check for five thou- 
 sand.” Something caught him in the throat. “ You are 
 a forger and a thief. I shall go and see my agents and 
 warn them for the future.” 
 
 “ No, you won't,” said Mavis. “ Because if you do, 1 
 shall leave you. And what will you do then? Five thou- 
 sand? Well, if you like to make me presents while you 
 are half drunk it's your lookout. Little enough, too, 
 considering what I've done for you. Dragged all round 
 the world; made to live in this hole all alone; five good 
 years thrown away and a good place given up. And you 
 kept all the time respectable so that not a soul suspects, 
 and you with a quarter of a million of your own. To 
 grudge a paltry check like that. Why, it is starvation. 
 You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You will be, too, 
 in half an hour. And I shouldn't wonder if you didn't — ” 
 
 He paused and grinned and turned to his occupation, 
 which was that of arranging the drink as if for a dozen 
 men. First he pulled the corks from two bottles of 
 whisky; then from half a dozen bottles of seltzer. Then 
 
144 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 he mixed the whisky and the seltzer in half a dozen great 
 tumblers, with an ostentatious and even enthusiastic gur- 
 gling. And at the sound of the flowing drink, the glou- 
 glou of the whisky and the fizzing of the sparkling seltzer, 
 George, who had assumed the attitude of the valiant sol- 
 dier, such as, with Horatius, kept the bridge, trembled in 
 his knees, and over his face — set to sternness such as the 
 face of him who leads a forlorn hope — there stole a weak- 
 ening, visible and irresistible. There would be no fight 
 after all, Nettie observed. And again she thought of 
 rushing into the room to stop him even at the last mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Too late. With a groan George sunk into the chair set 
 for him. He was trembling and shaking in every limb; 
 the room shook with his trembling; the drops stood upon 
 his forehead; his cheek was pale with longing; his eyes 
 were fierce with desire; his lips shook with yearning. He 
 hesitated no longer; he stretched forth his hand and seized 
 one of the flowing glasses. 
 
 And Nettie understood the reason why he had business 
 in Boston. She understood with a sinking heart. This 
 man her husband? This man? Oh! the pity and the 
 shame of it! She looked as if she could have wept and 
 cried aloud, but wonder and amazement kept her still. 
 He drained the glass. Mavis gave him another — and an- 
 other. He tossed them down his throat as if he could not 
 drink quickly enough; he seized the bottle and drank the 
 raw spirit; then he took another tumbler and drank that. 
 He drank in great gulps; he drank without stopping. He 
 was insatiable. 
 
 Good heavens! And the man had been her companion 
 for three years, always gentle, always kind, always tem- 
 perate. Now she understood why he had fled from his 
 own people. 
 
 The man Mavis sat at the table looking on. Nettie ob- 
 served that he showed the utmost zeal in keeping up the 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 145 
 
 spirit of the thing, opening bottles of seltzer, pouring out 
 water, making the tumblers fly as if they were both en- 
 gaged in the merriest, maddest, most frolicsome feast ever 
 devised. 
 
 At last George set down the bottle empty. A whole 
 bottle of whisky in a quarter of an hour! And yet he 
 lived. Now Nettie understood why he was so shy of other 
 men. He was ashamed; in his sober time he remembered 
 this time of orgy and was ashamed. He was not fit to asso- 
 ciate with men who command themselves. Yet, she re- 
 membered he had thought himself fit to associate with her 
 friends and herself. 
 
 He lay back in his chair smiling benevolently. He was 
 at rest. Surrender was followed by peace. It generally 
 
 is. When the enemy has got all he wants he is ready to 
 make peace. George looked round him peaceful and 
 happy. Never before had his wife seen on his face that 
 look of universal benevolence. 
 
 His eyes fell upon Mavis. “You are my benefactor,” 
 he said. “ Mavis, you are more than a servant — you are 
 a fond and faithful friend.” He did not speak thickly or 
 in the least like a man under the influence of drink. 
 “ You are more than a friend, you are my better self — my 
 other half — my better half — the half which protects and 
 provides” — he laid a fond hand upon the empty bottle — 
 “ provides and thinks beforehand. What can I do for 
 you, dear friend? Is it money? Can money repay such 
 devotion as yours? No. But if you want money — ” 
 
 “ Why,” said Mavis, “ money is always useful, and Fm 
 past fifty, and here’s your check-book and a bit of note- 
 paper handy. Since you will have it, Fm not the man to 
 say nay. We’ll make it five thousand while we’re about 
 
 it. Five thousand— not a penny more. ” 
 
 George nodded sweetly. “Five thousand,” he said. 
 “ Very good, indeed; five thousand. It is too little. But 
 since you insist on taking no more — ” He began to write. 
 
146 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 He wrote quite well and easily, in his usual handwriting. 
 In ten minutes he would be past the power of writing. 
 This was the golden moment known to every toper when 
 the brain seems — but is not — at its clearest and strongest. 
 This moment past, the clouds gather; to think or to talk 
 is impossible; nothing remains except to drink. 
 
 44 I have written,” he said. 44 1 don't know what my 
 lawyer has done with my money, whether it is lying at the 
 bank or whether they have invested it somewhere. I have 
 drawn a check to their order and I have written a letter. 
 Here it is: 
 
 44 6 On receipt of this note and its inclosure please pay 
 to the account of Joseph Mavis at the Tottenham branch 
 of the Union Bank of London the sum of five thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 6 4 4 Yours very truly, 
 
 44 4 George Atheling.' ” 
 
 44 What name did he say?” Nettie asked. 44 George 
 what? Not George Humphrey. He believes that he is 
 rich, and he has signed some one else's name. Oh, it is 
 forgery!” 
 
 “There, my dear friend,” George continued. 44 It is 
 some comfort to me that though I must fly from my 
 friends and hide my head I have got you to fall back 
 upon.” 
 
 44 Oh, you've got me fast enough.” He took a black 
 letter-case from his pocket and carefully placed in it the 
 letter and the check. 
 
 44 When I came here,” George went on, 44 1 thought 
 that among those little city clerks and people of that sort 
 nobody would care what anybody did. I was wrong. 
 They care more down here than they do up above. They 
 think more of behavior and conduct, not less, these worthy 
 people. I would rather that Nellie Thanet found me out 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 147 
 
 than my own wife — much rather. 1 should be less 
 ashamed.” 
 
 “Oh, my love, George,” the wife murmured, “and 
 now she does know.” 
 
 “ That’s all right, then,” the man replied without much 
 sympathy. “ You must be getting dry by this time, I 
 should say. Let’s begin again. Let’s have a night of it. 
 Lord, I’m most as thirsty as you. Ha!” 
 
 He began in his turn to drink, not with the mad greedi- 
 ness of his companion, but with a steady purpose, as if re- 
 solved to make up for lost time. As he drank his pale 
 cheeks became paler, but he lifted his eyes — they were 
 such bad eyes, so full of evil, that Nettie understood now 
 why she hated the sight of the man. Yet she had never 
 before seen those eyes. 
 
 Then George, stimulated by the example before him, 
 began again. 
 
 When Nettie presently, trembling and horrified, came 
 forth from her hiding-place, both men were vulgarly and 
 commonly drunk. No coal-heaver could be more drunk, 
 short of the comatose state. They were laughing stupidly 
 in each other’s face; they bawled snatches of song, but 
 they were too drunk to remember more bars of the air or 
 of the words; they banged each other on the shoulders with 
 their fists; they pawed each other; they addressed each 
 other by terms of endearment. 
 
 The sight was terrifying and humiliating. Nettie could 
 look on no longer. She went away. She walked through 
 the dark garden into the dark lane and made her way to 
 the road where ran the trams. It was now, though she 
 had seen so much, no more than eleven o’clock. 
 
 As the tram-car rolled along she heard not the talk of 
 the people round her or the carts in the road or anything. 
 Her ears were full of the drunken singing of the man 
 whom she had worshiped as the best and noblest of God’s 
 creatures. 
 
148 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HE IS FOUND. 
 
 When one has discovered a great secret, when one has 
 a great burden laid on the unwilling shoulders, when there 
 is a great grief, when there is a great terror to face — needs 
 must that the trouble is imparted to some other person 
 even if it can not be shifted or shared. Only to tell it 
 brings relief. 
 
 The case was quite beyond her own peopled power of 
 advice. That Nettie understood very well. Besides, they 
 must not know. She was ashamed. They must never 
 find out if the thing could be concealed. 
 
 She could think of no one to advise her except her old 
 friend, John Carew. 
 
 In the morning she went to his chambers, and fortu- 
 nately found him at home. 
 
 Then she sat down and told her whole story from the 
 very beginning. She had a patient listener, though it was 
 a long story and contained, before the point was reached, 
 as many episodes, digressions and explanations as an 
 eighteenth-century novel. Like most women— the thing 
 is illustrated by manylady novelists — she wanted the whole 
 story to be told so that nothing could be left to the imag- 
 ination. It therefore lost in dramatic force what it gained 
 in completeness. The narrator went right back to the 
 days when she was in the post-office and to the beginning 
 of her acquaintance with George. It began, in fact, with 
 a shilling’s worth of postage stamps. From what small 
 beginnings rise the greatest events. She told, with a 
 minuteness that gave rise to forebodings of terror as to the 
 nature of the climax, every detail of her story; how she 
 was taken with him from the first because he was such a 
 great, handsome man and had such lovely manners, and 
 
THE HEM OKI AC. 
 
 149 
 
 talked not a bit like the young clerks who had come court- 
 ing her, but like a beautiful book, and always so gentle 
 and so considerate, as if he couldn't bear to see her do the 
 least thing or be put out by the least worry; how her 
 father set his face against it, and mother, too, because he 
 was only a journalist; how her brother Horatio declared 
 that he for one was not going to associate with a penny-a- 
 liner; how her sister continually wanted to know who were 
 her fine lover's friends and where his people lived. How 
 they were married one morning at a registrar’s office with- 
 out the knowledge of anybody; how she then went home 
 and told what had happened, and if they liked she would 
 stay at home and go to church, if they didn't like she 
 would go off with her husband there and then, and how, 
 for the sake of respectability, they gave in and she did go 
 to church and was properly given away, but they never 
 really liked her husband. 
 
 How, further, he was the best and kindest of husbands, 
 and she had known nothing but goodness from him for 
 three years- and here she wept, for she was broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 “ You will tell me what follows presently, Nettie," said 
 John Carew. “ Best a little and recover yourself." 
 
 “ No, 1 must go on. You know that he has what he 
 calls business at Boston every two months. A man comes 
 to fetch him — it's always in the evening— and they go off 
 together. He's a horrid man. He looks on the ground, 
 he's, got swollen cheeks, he dresses in black like an under- 
 taker. " 
 
 “ 1 have heard of the mysterious business at Boston." 
 
 “ It isn't mysterious any longer. Now I know all about 
 it. And this is what I've come to tell you about — And 
 oh! John, 1 am the most miserable woman in the world." 
 
 64 Don't say that, Nettie. Tell me all, and we will see 
 what can be done. There isn't — there isn't — another 
 woman in the case?" 
 
150 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ John! can you ask such a question? As if my George 
 was capable — ” 
 
 “No, no, of course not. But go on — tell me all.” 
 
 “ Last night the man came again. Well, we’d been ex- 
 pecting his visit, and George, poor dear, was very low. 
 However, he went upstairs, put his things together, and 
 went off looking more miserable than ever I had seen him. 
 When he was gone 1 ran up to tidy the room after him, 
 which he’d left in the most horrid mess. I found, tum- 
 bled down behind the door, an old overcoat, which 1 
 thought, as George never wears it, I would take away and 
 put up in the next parcel to be sold. Well, in the pocket 
 I found a letter.” 
 
 “ A letter — and the letter contained a secret?” 
 
 “ It was a letter not addressed to George, but written to 
 some lady, in his handwriting. It was in an envelope 
 gummed and stamped ready to be posted; and the en- 
 velope was brown with age, so that I knew it must be a 
 letter written a long time ago and forgotten.” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ 1 was jealous,- John. I won’t deny that I was jealous. 
 But I am not jealous any longer. Why shouldn’t he be 
 engaged before he met me? Why, 1 was engaged before 
 he met me — twice; I was engaged and broken off each 
 time. That’s nothing. I read the letter, and oh, John, 
 it told the whole dreadful truth about the business in Bos- 
 ton.” 
 
 “Oh! The dreadful truth, and not a woman in it? Net- 
 tie,” he became very serious, “ not — not crime?” 
 
 “ John! Crime? With my George, my husband?” 
 
 “ Oh,” he sighed with relief, “ not crime — not another 
 woman. Do you know, I think it can not be so very ter- 
 rible.” 
 
 “ You think so— well? But you shall just read the let- 
 ter. It is addressed to a lady — a Miss Thanet — Elinor 
 Thanet — ” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 151 
 
 44 What f 3 John Carew bounded out of his chair. 
 44 Elinor Thanet? Good heavens! Elinor Thanet! What 
 a blind idiot 1 have been — blind and deaf and stupid. 
 Why, 1 ought to have guessed! Nettie, 1 know who your 
 husband is! He is not George Humphrey at all. If Elinor 
 had only once described him to me — if she had told me 
 that he was big and blue-eyed 1 should have guessed long 
 ago. Good heavens! Nettie, your husband is George 
 Atheling, who has disappeared for five years. ” 
 
 44 He is my George— my husband,” cried his wife, jeal- 
 ously. 
 
 44 Of course. Your husband. And I remember. Be- 
 sides, he must be the same Atheling who went down just 
 before 1 went up. I found his photograph. Now 1 re- 
 member why his face was familiar to me. Stay, Fve got 
 it somewhere.” He began to search through some papers 
 in a drawer. 44 1 know I have it still. It is here some- 
 where. Ah! Here it is. Before he grew that great beard. 
 Is this your husband, Nettie?” 
 
 44 Yes; this is George. He is younger, and he has no 
 beard. But George, most certainly George Humphrey, 
 my husband. ” 
 
 44 George Atheling, 1 say.” 
 
 44 Last night when he was writing he used that name. 
 I did not understand at the time why. What does it 
 mean, John? Oh, is this a new trouble?” 
 
 44 1 think not. Let me read the letter, however.” 
 
 He read the letter slowly, folded it up and laid it on the 
 table. 
 
 Just then a telegram arrived. 
 
 44 It is from Miss Thanet herself,” said John. 44 She 
 has heard from George. Why, I consulted him about 
 finding himself. He must have gone straight and written 
 to her. She says, 4 1 have heard from him; he is living 
 and well; come to advise me/ I actually consulted 
 George Humphrey about finding George Atheling, and he 
 
152 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 advised me to stop the search after him. Therefore, he 
 knew that we were looking for him. He advised me not 
 to advertise. But the advice came too late. Nettie, this 
 is a terrible thing for you to learn. You will want all 
 your courage. You believe that this business at Boston is 
 nothing more than — what he indicates in these two let- 
 ters.” 
 
 “ I have not told you all.” 
 
 She told the whole story, as you have heard it, sparing 
 no detail. 
 
 “ And now, John, what am 1 to do?” she concluded. 
 “ Never mind about Miss Thanet. Think of me and my 
 poor children.” 
 
 “ Yes, Nettie, Elinor Thanet must come after you. 
 The man, 1 should think, encourages his master for his 
 own purposes. You say that he gave him five thousand 
 pounds last night? Why, two months ago he gave him 
 the same sum.” 
 
 “ My husband hasn't got one hundred pounds in the 
 world.” 
 
 “ Nettie, there is another little secret for you. Your 
 husband is not a poor journalist. He is a rich man — a 
 very rich man. 1 do not know how rich. He has several 
 thousand a year.” 
 
 “Oh! no. It can't be.” 
 
 “ It certainly is so. He hasn't made away with his fort- 
 une. The check of five thousand pounds is the only check 
 that he has drawn for three years.” 
 
 “ Rich? Then my boys— oh! John — my boys — ” 
 
 “ Will be rich as well. Nettie, you have found out a 
 terrible secret. But you have also found a secret which 
 may bring consolation and even help.” 
 
 “ What am I to do, John? Oh! what am 1 to do? For 
 if he finds out that I know all he will be ashamed; he will 
 run away and desert me. And if he goes away again on 
 business to Boston I shall die of pity and anxiety for him. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 153 
 
 Oh! he thinks I should despise him. I, who have never 
 found him anything but full of love! Oh, John, I am full 
 of pity for him. 1 was full of rage when I went after 
 him. But it was so dreadful to think of him as I saw him 
 last night — so fallen — so degraded— my George!” 
 
 “ Let me try to do something for you. Leave him to 
 me — I have at least an idea. He can’t run away this 
 morning; I am quite sure. Leave him to me.” 
 
 44 But, John, don’t tell him that I know.” 
 
 44 1 never will. Go, now, Nettie. Go with some relief 
 to your poor heart. You know the worst. Now, go and 
 let me think.” 
 
 The cottage at Tottenham on this splendid summer 
 morning, surrounded by flowers and trees covered with 
 creepers, looked like a bridal bower — a sweet, sacred spot 
 reserved for honey-moons, the rest of a newly married 
 pair. It was perfectly quiet. Except for a thrush or a 
 blackbird there was hardly any sound in the air. You 
 could hear the hum of the countless insects about the 
 flower beds, and though the lawn was neglected and the 
 grass long and the flowers were mixed with weeds, the 
 place looked beautiful and inviting. Bound the house was 
 a brick wall of great ancientness, the top covered with 
 long grasses and wall flowers. A policeman stood outside 
 the gate gazing upon this scrap or remnant of Eden. 
 
 About eleven o’clock a carriage and pair came down the 
 lane and stopped before the gate. A gentleman got out, 
 followed by two cominissionnaires, stalwart, well set up 
 men. The policeman watched him curiously. 
 
 “ 1 want,” said the gentleman, who was John Carew, 
 44 to find a house tenanted by one Mavis.” 
 
 The policeman smiled mysteriously and pointed within. 
 
 44 This is Mr. Mavis’s house?” 
 
 The policeman smiled again and pointed within. 
 
 44 Well, do you know if he’s within at this moment?” 
 
154 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ Oh, yes; he’s within. You’ll find him. The other 
 gentleman is there, too.” 
 
 “ The other gentleman who comes here to stay a day or 
 two. 1 have come, in fact, for him.” 
 
 “ Well, you’ll find them there, but — ” 
 
 “You mean that it will be difficult to get speech of 
 them — is that it? I know all about it, you see.” 
 
 “Last night,” said the policeman, “I heard them. 
 They’re a cheerful pair when they do get together. 1 sus- 
 pected something, so 1 went in. The door was open and a 
 window was wide open. I shut the door, but the window 
 I left open. A s for making them understand anything — 
 there. You can let yourself in by getting through the 
 window, if you like. ” 
 
 John Carew followed his guidance and entered by that 
 method. 
 
 Lying on a sofa, breathing stertorously, his cheeks 
 swollen and red, lay George Humphrey. He was evident- 
 ly in a deep drunken sleep, from which he would not 
 waken for some hours. On the floor lay the other man. 
 Mavis, also sound asleep and in a similar condition. 
 
 John opened the front door to admit his commission- 
 naires. They looked round the house. Every room, ex- 
 cept one bedroom, was empty and unfurnished. If this 
 man lived in the house it must have been a most uncom- 
 fortable way of living. Then he returned to the first 
 room. On the table he saw a black leather case. He re- 
 membered the story of the letter and the check. “ At all 
 events,” he said, “if George wants to give him this 
 money, which I doubt, he shall give it when he is sober. 
 He opened the case and took out the papers. “ When you 
 wake up, my honest fellow,” he addressed the sleeping 
 servant, “ you will remember the check and you will 
 search for it, and you will not find it. Then will your 
 heart sink like lead, and your amazement shall make your 
 knees to totter, and what with hot coppers and the disap- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 155 
 
 pointment and the anxiety about the check and the disap- 
 pearance of your master, your condition will be very be- 
 wildering and uncomfortable.” 
 
 “ Poor beast!” He turned to the contemplation of 
 George. “ This is how we meet. This is the man whose 
 face so filled me with admiration six years ago. I remem- 
 ber him now. This is the reason why he took his name 
 off the books. Poor wretch! What an awful affliction! 
 He is the slave of the ex-gyp — the slave of this creature.” 
 He turned the prostrate body over with his foot. 
 
 Then by the aid of the two stout commissionnaires he 
 carried the sleeping man, George Atheling, out of the cot- 
 tage, placed him in the carriage, and drove away. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE MOUTH OF HELL. 
 
 George returned to consciousness in the afternoon, 
 about three o’clock. From long experience, he knew per- 
 fectly well what had happened. It was the day after the 
 first orgy. He was in the cottage lying on the sofa. He 
 knew this without opening his eyes. He had got through 
 the first of the two attacks. The second would seize him 
 presently, but not for a few hours, not till he had partly 
 recovered from the first. The second attack was always 
 fiercer, but more easily and quickly subdued by him who 
 made haste to surrender. He knew that if he moved his 
 head it would be as heavy as lead; he knew also that if he 
 tried to get up he should stagger and fall. Therefore he 
 lay quite still, his eyes closed. He grew more wakeful. 
 He heard voices— the voices of men talking somewhere — 
 one voice that he knew very well. The sound of voices, 
 even where there are no voices, does not greatly alarm a 
 man in this condition and with those experiences. Some- 
 times George would see shapes — figures — whole regiments 
 
156 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 and armies of creatures with faces of the most frightful 
 ugliness. Voices are not half so bad as faces. Voices can 
 shout and swear and threaten, but they do not terrify like 
 faces. Besides, these voices were only murmurs — low and 
 peaceful murmurs; no harm in these voices at all. Better 
 these voices than the hateful voice of Mavis. 
 
 He became more wakeful still. Another illusion. It 
 seemed now as if his head were reposed on a soft pillow 
 and his limbs on a spring mattress; as if his hand were 
 lapped in soft sheets and that blankets were laid upon him; 
 in a word, it seemed as if he was in bed. Everybody 
 knows exactly how it feels to be in bed. Strange mocking 
 of his senses. Why, he was on the hard horsehair sofa at 
 the cottage, and most likely Mavis was lying drunk on the 
 floor, and it was probably the middle of the night. Then 
 a door opened and the voices became audible. And then 
 he heard a footstep in the room and he opened his eyes. 
 
 He was not at the cottage at all. He was in a bedroom 
 — a large bedroom properly furnished; not his own bed- 
 room in the Daffodil Road, which was of small dimensions, 
 but a full-sized bedroom. What could this mean? Chris- 
 topher Sly himself was not more surprised, nor that other 
 honest toper whose head was cut off by the benevolent 
 Peter, also styled the Great, so that he might awake from 
 his drunken sleep to find himself in Paradise. No death 
 was ever devised more happy. George half turned his 
 head. The owner of the footstep he observed was none 
 other than John Carew. And he wondered whether this 
 also was illusion. 
 
 “So/' he said, at the bedside, “ you are awake at last, 
 are you?” 
 
 “ Where am I?” 
 
 “ In my rooms.” 
 
 “Oh!” He closed his eyes again in order to fix his 
 mind on this new phenomenon. Then he opened them 
 once more. “ How came I here?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 157 
 
 44 I brought you.” 
 
 44 Oh!” Once more he closed his eyes. This was all a 
 dream — he was in dream and ghost-land. A more com- 
 plicated dream than is commonly encountered, but still 
 only a dream. There could be no John Carew — no bed- 
 no chamber at all — only the sofa and the cottage. 
 
 44 1 brought you here, man — I brought you in a car- 
 riage. I found out where you were lying and I went there 
 on purpose to bring you back. Don’t think you are 
 dreaming. This part of your thoughts, at least, is not 
 delirium tremens. I found you lying on a sofa in your 
 cottage as drunk as a log and as senseless. 1 had you car- 
 ried to the carriage and brought j’ou away. ” 
 
 44 How did you find me?” 
 
 44 That is my secret. Well, this is what you call going 
 to Boston on business. Noble business!” 
 
 George shut his eyes again. 44 Every man,” he said, 
 feebly, 44 is master of his own actions, 1 suppose.” 
 
 44 If you were master of yours, you would not be lying 
 here in this condition. Come, you know it.’ 
 
 George made no reply. 
 
 “Your own master!” repeated John Carew. 44 You 
 are a slave, a miserable slave. You are a coward — you 
 run away from a bogy — ” 
 
 44 1 wish you had such a bogy after you — ” 
 
 44 1 know exactly what happens to you. Every two 
 months you are assailed by a craving for drink. It is a 
 very well-known disease in one form or the other. Thou- 
 sands of men have it. The only way to meet it is to fight 
 it. You don’t fight it. You give in at once. You go 
 away with this wretched creature of yours, who encourages 
 you for purposes of his own, and you drink like a hog with 
 him till the fit passes away.” 
 
 44 All this,” said George, 44 is quite true. I assure you, 
 however, that it is not the smallest use to say it, unless 
 for the relief of your conscience,” 
 
158 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 When the fit passes, you get up, shake off the conse- 
 quences, and go home.” 
 
 44 That is also true. You may add that the chief aim of 
 my life is to keep my wife, and hereafter my children, 
 from any knowledge of this thing. You have found me 
 out. Remember, if you are a friend of hers, to keep the 
 secret from her.” 
 
 44 Very well. Some day — perhaps when your boys have 
 arrived at a time- of life which will enable them to feel the 
 degradation — you will be exposed; you will be caught and 
 detected. You are certain to be found out. Your serv- 
 ant will grow tired of you. He is already devising a plan 
 for making himself independent of you. He has stolen 
 five thousand pounds of you. That you know already, be- 
 cause you heard it from me. Last night he made another 
 attempt. He made you write an order on your agents for 
 another five thousand pounds.” 
 
 44 No! no!” cried George. 44 He had not the impu- 
 dence — ” 
 
 44 He had indeed. I am only surprised, considering all 
 things, that he did not make it fifty thousand while he 
 was about it. But such a man can not soar very high in 
 robbery. To him ten thousand pounds seems a vast sum 
 of money. My opinion is that in robbing you of these 
 sums his intention is to leave you and go away. He must 
 have made a good deal out of you in the five years. Have 
 you any idea what he has cost you?” 
 
 44 Is this a time for arithmetic? Well, when I started 
 journalist I took a thousand pounds with me — something 
 to fall back upon. 1 haven't spent any of it on myself.” 
 
 44 It is all gone, I suppose?” 
 
 44 1 believe it has all gone in three years.” 
 
 44 Then, of course, he thinks that when he can get no 
 more out of you, it will be time to leave you. Well, then, 
 when he is gone, what will you do next?” 
 
 44 1 don’t know — make away with myself,” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 159 
 
 “ Oh, no, you won't do that. Men like you never do. 
 Perhaps it would be better for your children if you would. 
 You will look out for another attendant. The thing will 
 get whispered and will so become known. Why, I know 
 it already — other people know it. I have learned this 
 secret of yours, and with it the whole reason of your life — 
 your flight and your disappearance. " 
 
 44 What do you know about my life?" 
 
 44 I will tell you presently. For the moment, remember 
 that there is no Mavis here. I do not think you will ever 
 see the respectable Mavis any more. At least 1 hope you 
 will not." 
 
 George sat up in bed, resolution in his face. 44 Will you 
 go away? 1 am going to get up and dress." 
 
 44 What shall you do when you are dressed?" 
 
 44 I shall go back to the cottage." 
 
 64 Very well, then. You can't dress, you see, because I 
 have had all your clothes taken away. And you can't 
 wear mine because you are six feet three and 1 am five feet 
 nine. Eh?" 
 
 To this George made no reply. He fell back on the pil- 
 lows. Besides, his head was heavy. He could not get up 
 and dress even if he had the wherewithal. 
 
 64 Is your fit gone for good — I mean, for the present?" 
 
 44 No." 
 
 44 Will there be another attack?" 
 
 44 Yes." He glared at his captor, looking about him as 
 if for some clothes — any clothes— in which he could get 
 back to the cottage. 
 
 44 When do you expect it?" 
 
 44 Not till this evening. It may come any moment, but 
 as a rule 1 do not expect it until the evening when I have 
 partly recovered from the first attack." 
 
 44 Oh, 1 am glad — 1 am very glad— -that you are going 
 to have another attack, because 1 have made every prepa- 
 ration for it. You shall see how hospitable I shall be." 
 
160 
 
 TIIE DEMONIAC. 
 
 44 If your preparations do not include whisky,” said 
 George, calmly, 44 there will be trouble. I warn you — I 
 shall have the strength of three men.” 
 
 44 So I have been told; I have therefore laid in a stock 
 of strong men. There will be quite as many of them as 
 we are at all likely to require. You may be perfectly easy 
 on that point. Whatever trouble may result from the ab- 
 sence of the whisky, be assured that you yourself will be 
 subdued and held down, and, if necessary, put into a strait 
 waistcoat. ” 
 
 44 Oh, you don’t know — you don’t know.” 
 
 44 My dear fellow, it is true that 1 don’t know. Thank 
 God I do not know, but 1 can guess. No drink at all ex- 
 cept water, and for companion of your bedside your own 
 wife.” 
 
 44 My wife? My wife? No, Carew — not that. You 
 -have not been so inhuman.” 
 
 44 Why not? Since it depends wholly on yourself 
 whether you will conquer this weakness or not, since she is 
 not supposed to know what is the matter — ” 
 
 44 Oh! You have not told her?” 
 
 44 No,” this was perfectly true; 44 1 have not told her. 
 That, my friend, I leave to you. Nobody shall tell her 
 but you. She will sit at your bedside. When the attack 
 begins you will tell her what it is if you can not fight it. 
 Then the strong men will come in and your wife will go 
 out. And in the morning we shall know what to do 
 next.” 
 
 George lay back groaning. 44 This is sheer cruelty. It 
 is torture. You do not know — ” 
 
 44 Since torture is the only thing that will cure, let us 
 apply torture by all means. Suppose that torture had 
 been applied by yourself five years ago. It would have 
 been like the pricking of a pin compared with the pain you 
 will feel this night. Yet you must bear it. Think of it as 
 of the flames of purgatory. ” 
 
THE DEM OK I AG. 
 
 161 
 
 He shook his head and groaned again. 
 
 44 Come, you shall have a cup of tea. Will you eat any- 
 thing?” 
 
 44 Give me the tea.” 
 
 When he had taken the tea his eyes closed. He dropped 
 off to sleep again. He slept for two hours. It was half 
 past five when he awoke. 
 
 John Carew was at his bedside still. 
 
 44 Come,” he said, “ you have had a refreshing sleep. 
 I have got some beef- tea and toast for you. Will you take 
 that?” 
 
 44 So,” after awhile, 44 do you feel strong enough to go 
 on with our talk? I have got a great deal to say — and 
 perhaps the fit will seize you again. ” 
 
 44 No, I think not. I feel no symptoms of it.” 
 
 44 Partly because the scoundrel Mavis is not with you to 
 suggest the craving and to pour out the drink. Now, 
 then. First of all, 1 know who you are. 1 have found 
 that out. You are George Atheling. You took your 
 name off the books of your college at the end of your sec- 
 ond year and went down without taking your degree. 
 You were engaged to Elinor Thanet and you broke off the 
 engagement; you separated yourself from your old friends 
 and lived alone; you went on a voyage; you came home; 
 you then dived down into lower depths of society; you be- 
 came a journalist; you have deserted your fortune as well 
 as your friends; you live on your earnings; and you are 
 married. All this because you have never once had the 
 courage to fight this bogy.” 
 
 44 1 do not ask how you found out all this,” George re- 
 plied. 44 Of course it is all true. Yet do not tell my 
 wife.” 
 
 44 1 think she may know something of this already. 
 You may find out, if you please, what she does know.” 
 
 “ How long have you known all this?” 
 
 44 Only a few hours. I may tell you that I promised 
 6 
 
162 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Elinor some time since to do all in my power to discover 
 you. She will not be happy until she has seen you.” 
 
 46 1 have treated her very badly.” 
 
 44 You certainly have. You must make what apologies 
 and excuses you can. However, nobody else knows, and 
 there is nothing to prevent your going back to your old 
 friends and taking up your old station.” 
 
 ^ 44 Nothing? There is always the same thing.” 
 
 44 We shall see what happens to-night. No symptoms 
 yet?” 
 
 44 No, not yet., Man, if 1 do not satisfy this devil he 
 will rend me limb from limb.” 
 
 44 Bogy! He threatens. He can do nothing. Stand up 
 to him— fight him. Now listen, Mr. George Atheling, be- 
 cause I am going to speak very plainly to you. The time 
 has come when action must be taken. ” 
 
 44 Go on — I am listening. But it will all come to noth- 
 ing. This devil is more crafty than you think.” 
 
 44 Is he? That shall be seen. Your wife will presently 
 come to nurse you. 1 shall have a supply ready of lemons 
 • — apollinaris water— coffee — tea — anything you may want. 
 We shall keep watch— the strong men and I — by turns in 
 the next room. If you face the devil like a man and fight 
 him till he flies, we shall do nothing — you will be alone 
 with your wife. If, on the other hand, you surrender and 
 begin to rave and to rage and to cry for the drink which 
 you will not get, if you jump out of bed and attempt to 
 search for drink either in this room or the next, you will 
 be seized by the strong men and bound and tied with ropes 
 such as even Samson could not snap. 1 assure you that 
 my men are very strong and that they understand this 
 kind of work. So far you follow?” 
 
 44 Yes, 1 follow. You will drive me mad.” 
 
 44 I am coming to that. Curious that you should an- 
 ticipate my thoughts. When you are tied down and help- 
 less— possibly, as you say, by that time raving mad— I 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 163 
 
 shall send for a doctor. It will then be time to interfere 
 for the sake of your own wife and children. I shall have 
 you treated as a madman in reality. You shall be re- 
 moved to an asylum.” 
 
 “ You can not,” said George. “ No doctor would sign 
 the certificate. You can prove that I was drunk, not that 
 I was mad. It is very good bounce, however.” 
 
 66 Do not deceive yourself. Come, you are a man of 
 sense. Let us consider the facts of the case. ” 
 
 “ No facts will make me out to be mad.” 
 
 “ Let us see. You are a man of wealth and position. 
 You abandon both — why? You have given up all your 
 friends and have gone to live alone, among people of a 
 lower class — why? This you have done, not from philan- 
 thropy or religion or poverty or disgrace, or any of the 
 ordinary motives that make men do such things. Not at 
 all. Nor have you done it in order to give a free rein to 
 vicious inclinations. Not in the least. Why, then?” 
 
 “ Reason enough,” said George, grimly. 
 
 4 ‘Not at all. Because if there was a thing to be con- 
 cealed from your old friends, there is the same thing to be 
 concealed from your new friends. Act of a madman. 
 You have gained nothing by the change. There was no 
 motive for it. Next you become a journalist. Being a 
 man of learning and culture, you choose to live on the 
 precarious earnings of a local journalist reporter — penny- 
 a-liner, while you have waiting for you an income of some 
 thousand pounds a year. Nay, you go further in your 
 madness. You marry a girl of this class — not a disgrace- 
 ful class, quite the reverse, but not a class in which gen- 
 tlewomen are reared. You have children whose rights are 
 your own; they are the heirs to this great property. Yet 
 you prefer to bring them up as the children of a man who 
 is happy if he gets three hundred a year.” 
 
 “ Yet that does not make me mad.” 
 
 “We pass over the Australian fiction and the false name 
 
164 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 because they belong to the situation. Next, you can be 
 proved to be in the power of a man formerly a gyp at 
 Cambridge and afterward your servant. He comes at cer- 
 tain periods and drags you away with him to a cottage 
 near Tottenham, where together you conduct disgraceful 
 orgies not to be accounted for except under the supposition 
 of madness. And you reward this man with immense 
 sums of money. A week ago you sent him five thousand 
 pounds, and last night another five thousand, though it is 
 not certain whether he will secure that plunder. If it is 
 necessary in order to show how mad you are, he shall have 
 it. For what consideration did you give that man ten 
 thousand pounds in one week? For acting as a keeper or 
 attendant? But you pay him for that— you give him his 
 wages — and he has got in three years a thousand pounds 
 out of you for alleged expenses. You knew that he cheat- 
 ed you, of course?” 
 
 George groaned. 6 6 1 knew he was a thief. But 1 
 could do nothing.” 
 
 66 Putting everything together, my dear boy,” said John 
 Carew, cheerfully, “ I have not the least doubt that we 
 shall prove you to be as mad as Nebuchadnezzar. Your 
 wife,” he went on, “ has arrived. She is in the other 
 room. I have told her you are very ill, and that there is 
 every prospect of a bad night. She will come and sit by 
 you. She will talk to you. Presently you will perhaps 
 fall asleep. When you wake up you will perhaps get the 
 next attack. Say to yourself that whatever you do — 
 whether you rage and roar, whether you cry and beseech, 
 or whether you fight — it all comes to the same thing — you 
 will get no drink. You are thinking of flight. You can 
 not very well get to Tottenham from South Kensington in 
 a white night-dress with no money and my strong men all 
 running after you. You must be frightfully mad to think 
 of such a thing. Don't glare at me, man. You are now 
 brought face to face with your devil, for the first time. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 165 
 
 You are obliged to fight or to go mad, because I verily be- 
 lieve, George Atheling, that if you give way to him this 
 time, if you let him clutch your throat once, sinoe there is 
 no drink to satisfy him, you will truly go stark, staring, 
 raving mad. We will have the business settled once for 
 all.” 
 
 The big man tossed his arms in a kind of despair. The 
 net was about him. There was no way out of it. He 
 thought of the voyage and of that knob so carefully pre- 
 pared for him by the best of servants. Had Mavis been 
 within reach he would have offered that last check of five 
 thousand pounds for drink; for he saw before him such a 
 time as Damien expected when he was taken forth to have 
 his flesh wrenched off with red-hot pincers and to be torn 
 to pieces by wild horses. 
 
 66 Atheling,” John Carew added, earnestly, “ this may 
 be the most fateful moment in your life. All depends now 
 upon your courage. Your wife will be with you to keep 
 up your resolution” — George turned his face to the wall 
 to hide the emotion that filled his eyes — 44 your wife, who 
 has believed you the strongest and best man in the whole 
 world. Think what is at stake. Her life's happiness, 
 your own self-respect, the whole future of your children — 
 all depend upon your courage this night.” 
 
 44 You do not know — you do not know,” George repeat- 
 ed. 44 The thing is a devil — he will take my life. He will 
 tear me to pieces. ” 
 
 44 Not he. You are as strong as a bull. Put forth your 
 strength. You are worth fifty such devils, and besides, 
 you won't have beside you the other devil — the man who 
 chinks the glasses and pours out the drink and eggs 
 you on.” 
 
 44 How do you know that he does?” 
 
 44 1 know everything. Now, promise — you will fight 
 him?” 
 
166 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 46 1 promise. Only — I have promised before. And the 
 devil always wins.” 
 
 “ Then, by the Lord Harry, George Atheling, if the 
 devil wins this time, you shall be the prize show of the 
 madhouse. My men are waiting for you and my doctor 
 will be ready with another doctor to sign the certificate. 
 Heaven or hell — whichever you choose — with purgatory 
 between. Odd that you can get into hell as well as out of 
 it through purgatory.” 
 
 John Carew went away. A minute later he returned 
 bringing “Nettie and the boy— the little George — the two- 
 year-old 
 
 44 He has had a bad night, Nettie,” said John, 44 and he 
 fears another bad night. I think that nothing can be 
 done for him but to watch him and give him cooling 
 things. ” 
 
 Nettie bent over her husband and kissed him, weeping. 
 
 44 Here is your boy. Sit up and play with him a little* 
 It won’t hurt you. Nay,” said John, 44 it should do you 
 good. Here is a fine little laddie for you. Worth mak- 
 ing a bit of a fight for the sake of such a lusty little chap 
 as this, isn’t it?” The boy ran laughing over the bed into 
 his father’s arms. 44 What a belief a child has in his fa- 
 ther!” said John, uttering the commonplace as if it were 
 a perfectly original remark never before heard of — a dis- 
 covery newly made. Yet it had it’s effect. 44 Now this 
 boy,” he went on, 44 believes that his father can do no 
 wrong; that his father is strong enough to conquer the 
 whole world; that his father is able to get anything or be 
 anything that he wishes. Fancy the disgust of such a boy 
 as this if he were to find that his father was a coward, a 
 sneaking poltroon, afraid to face a bogy!” 
 
 44 John,” said Nettie, 44 please not to say such things.” 
 
 44 1 beg your pardon, Nettie, I was speaking generally. 
 Well, the next thing is what we should give this man by 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 167 
 
 way of food. It is now getting on for seven. I think he 
 will sleep if w@ give him food. Will you rest in the other 
 room, Nettie? I will watch him till nightfall. " 
 
 44 No, John, my place is here. 5 ' She sat down and took 
 George's hands. 
 
 John Carew went out, taking the child with him. 
 
 Husband and wife were left alone. 
 
 Nettie threw her arms round George's neck. 
 
 44 My dear — my dear," she said, 44 1 must not hide any- 
 thing from you. Last night 1 found a letter in your 
 pocket addressed to a girl, and I was jealous and opened 
 it. The letter was five years old, and it told me — oh, 
 George l — it told your secret. Then I thought I would 
 follow and drag you away from that man. And 1 took 
 the train and got to the cottage and stood outside the open 
 window and saw — oh, George! — God help us both!— I saw 
 all — 1 saw all — oh, my husband! — oh, my dear — my poor 
 dear — I saw all!" 
 
 44 If you saw what was done — if you saw and heard — 
 Nettie, I have dreaded this discovery ever since I met you. 
 1 need make no confession now you know all that there 
 is to tell. You have found out all that there was to 
 hide." He sighed heavily. Perhaps it was a relief that 
 the thing was known. 44 Nettie," he said, 44 since you 
 know so much you had better know the whole. My name 
 is not Humphrey at all — " 
 
 44 1 know that too — John Carew told me. And you are 
 rich. And now 1 know why you talked so much about 
 riches and poverty. But talk no more, dear. Try and 
 rest. " 
 
 44 As for forgiveness — " said George. 
 
 44 Oh! Forgiveness— me to forgive? Why, dear, if you 
 had done these things at home even, there would be no 
 question of forgiveness. It is not the man that I saw last 
 night that I love, but my George — my good and tender 
 
168 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 husband — the father of my babes. Oh, my dear, do not 
 speak of forgiveness, you tear my heart. ” 
 
 ******* 
 
 At midnight George, who had fallen into a gentle sleep, 
 awoke with a violent start. He sat up iirbed catching his 
 breath with a gasp. He threw off the bed-clothes. He 
 would have leaped out of bed but that Nettie laid her hand 
 on him. 
 
 “ My dear,” she said, 64 patience. I am here — courage 
 and patience. It is for the children's sake.” 
 
 She turned up the light. He looked round and remem- 
 bered. He was not on the sofa of the cottage. 
 
 “ Bemember,” she said, “you have sworn. We have 
 prayed together. Oh, George! for the love of God, for the 
 sake 6f the children!” 
 
 “ Take my hand — take my hand — speak to me. Let 
 me not lose myself. The devil is here— his fingers are at 
 my throat — his burning fingers— ah!” 
 
 There followed a conflict more determined, more terri- 
 ble than the historic duel of Christian and Apollyon. It 
 was as if Christian had been so often beaten and so cowed 
 by continual defeat that his heart was taken out of him. 
 Man against devil — man with no other weapon than the 
 shield of endurance. Devil with all the weapons— sword 
 to strike, lance to pierce, red-hot pincers to burn and tear* 
 
 Beside the bed stood or knelt the wife holding fast her 
 husband^ hand, cooling his burning forehead with a wet 
 sponge, soothing, consoling, encouraging him — praying 
 aloud for him, that the Lord would strengthen him in this 
 hour of agony, torn with the anguish of witnessing the 
 tortures of one fighting against the most dreadful of all ills 
 which beset body and soul — the maddened craving for 
 drink. It was such torture as caused this great man to 
 roll about and writhe; it made his eyes start and stare 
 wildly; it made him gasp and fight for breath; but he 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 169 
 
 would not give in. It was the last chance for him. He 
 would not cry for drink. 
 
 From time to time his mind wandered and he talked in- 
 coherently. 
 
 44 Then,” he said, quoting from some old voyage, 64 they 
 sailed their craft for two days along the coast, and the heat 
 of the place was such that they called it Pernambuco, or 
 the mouth of hell; so that some of the men went mad and 
 jumped overboard, crying for cold water, and so perished 
 miserably. But those who held on presently came to a 
 pleasant haven where there were fruits, springs of fresh 
 water, and cool breezes, and so were refreshed and com- 
 forted.” 
 
 And so on, talk strange — talk of a man in the intervals 
 of torture. When they racked the victims of the Holy 
 Inquisition, between the rackings the wretches would mur- 
 mur of sweet streams and soft banks and love, and all 
 kipds of pleasant things. Then the screw was turned and 
 they came back to agony. 
 
 For two hours; while the agony brought out the beads 
 upon his forehead and swelled the veins of his neck and 
 face and cramped his limbs. Every moment of yielding 
 during the last five years lengthened the torture; every 
 moment of surrender made that torture worse. 
 
 44 Oh, my dear! my dear! my brave, dear George — my 
 poor dear George!” murmured his wife. 
 
 In the room outside John Carew paced up and down list- 
 ening. He heard the prayers of the wife; he heard her 
 words of comfort and of encouragement. He looked to 
 hear the cry of surrender and despair, when he must take 
 away the wife and send in the strong men — his garrison, 
 who were sleeping in the kitchen chairs, ready for action; 
 but that cry came not. And he marveled; for still the 
 wife prayed and still she encouraged her husband, and still 
 there was silence save for such murmured words as you 
 have heard when his mind wandered. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 170 
 
 ]n all great suffering, in all times of great trouble, there 
 comes a supreme moment when it seems as if no more 
 could be borne, but that madness must follow. At this 
 moment death comes, or the suffering ceases and the 
 patient lives. 
 
 To George there came such a moment. He fell back. 
 His face was ghastly; he gasped; his hands were clinched; 
 his eyes stared; his limbs were contorted; he seemed to be 
 dying. His wife bent over him, breathless. 
 
 Then a change. The ghastliness left his cheeks; he 
 closed his eyes; he sighed; he composed his limbs. Was 
 he dying? No; he breathed softly; he lay at rest. The 
 battle was over. He had beaten the devil. 
 
 Presently he opened his eyes. “It is over, Nettie— -it is 
 all over. The devil has gone— he will not come again for 
 two months. When next he comes we will fight him 
 again. Kiss me, dear. Have no longer any fear. Lie 
 down now and rest — or one service more. Pull back the 
 curtains; let me see the day again — ” The sky was splen- 
 did with the rising sun. “ Oh, my dear — my dear — the 
 new day begins — the new day. Lie down and sleep and 
 let me think of the new day and of the children and of 
 you. Lie down and sleep and take your rest. Nettie, 
 Nettie — do not cry. It is over — I am a free man at last! 
 I am a free man! That is,” his voice dropped and he 
 murmured, unheard by his wife, who was praising God for 
 this great mercy, “ I think I may be a free man. But I 
 doubt — I doubt. The devil is very cunning.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE REWARD. 
 
 The political views of the Patager family are divided. 
 Thus the elder Patager takes in the “ Echo;” his son 
 Horatio, the “Star” (but perhaps more for its sporting 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 m 
 
 news than for its politics), and Victoria’s husband takes 
 the “Evening News.” They generally read the whole 
 paper through slowly. It is the chief, sometimes the only, 
 literature of these people; it is their sole method of com- 
 munication with the outer world. Many of the lower 
 creatures communicate by means of tentacles, filaments, 
 and so forth, with the things around them. It is man’s 
 privilege to communicate with the world round him by 
 means of the newspapers. They administer to him, when 
 he can learn it, a daily lesson to humanity. They also 
 provide for him his principal means of taking pleasure. 
 How else or where can one get a whole evening’s amuse- 
 ment for the ridiculous sum of one halfpenny? 
 
 Mr. Patager, senior, industriously and regularly read all 
 the advertisements right through. He keeps this part of 
 the paper to the last; it is his bonne-bouche ; it gives him 
 more satisfaction than even the correspondence columns. 
 The announcement of houses to be let or sold, of lodgings 
 offered to young men, of situations vacant or wanted, of 
 profitable exchanges, of things to be sold, of great bar- 
 gains, all alike, if not equally, interest him. 1 know not 
 why, except as a love story may, for memories it awakens, 
 interest an ancient dame. Mostly, of course, he delights 
 in the personal advertisements. He read with pleasure 
 the reminder to H. E. that his wife awaits him with for- 
 giveness; the hint from Queenie that she expects Tom at 
 the next appointment, or she must seek advice; the 
 thieves’ tip, conveyed in a piece of information concerning 
 A. B., of Bradford; the recall of the prodigal son with the 
 promise of a fatted calf; all these things may be turned by 
 an imaginative mind into romance, comedy, and tragedy. 
 We know that if H. E. does return to his wife he will 
 probably meet with reproaches harder to bear than the 
 oaken cudgel; we are quite sure that Queenie has already 
 deposited all Tom’s letters with a solicitor, and that she 
 awaits with cheerfulness either the wedding-ring or sub- 
 
172 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 stantial damages; and if we have any experience at all of 
 prodigal sons, this one most; certainly will not come back 
 so long as a single shilling remains, because, you see, the 
 domestic fatted calf is insipid compared with the same dish 
 served up hot and hot with the ladies and gentlemen in 
 the flowery path. 
 
 This evening. Mr. Patager, senior, read in its turn an 
 advertisement which at first he nearly passed by. Then 
 something in it caught his eye and he read it again with 
 attention. 
 
 44 My dear, '' he said, looking up slowly, 64 there is some- 
 thing very strange about this. '' 
 
 44 About what?” 
 
 44 About this advertisement. Listen: 
 
 44 4 Fifty Pounds Reward. 
 
 4 4 4 The above will be paid to any person who will 
 give information as to the present residence of George 
 Atheling , gentleman, of Atheling Court, Bucks, if he 
 is living, or as to the time and place of his death if 
 he is dead. He was last heard of in January, 1887. 
 The s^id George Atheling is about twenty-eight years 
 of age; he is six feet three inches in height; he has 
 blue eyes and dark-brown hair; he is broad-shouldered and 
 strong; his voice is low and musical; he has perhaps as- 
 sumed some other name. Address Messrs. Mansfield & 
 Westbury, 109 New Square, Lincoln's Inn.' 
 
 44 Why, good gracious, my dear '' — the wife jumped out 
 of her chair — 44 let me read it: 4 Six feet three — blue eyes 
 — dark-brown hair — broad-shouldered — twenty-eight — his 
 voice ' — why — why — who— -who — who — who should it be 
 but our Nettie's George?” 
 
 44 Our Nettie's George — no other,'' Mr. Patager echoed, 
 solemnly. 44 They have advertised for him! Now what 
 can that mean? George Atheling, gentleman, of Atheling 
 
THE DEMONIAC/ 173 
 
 Court — it can’t be, yet the description — my dear, it tallies 
 in every particular.” 
 
 44 Let me read it again,” said the wife. 44 My dear, all 
 I’ve prophesied has come true.” She returned the paper 
 and sat down with a smile of triumph. 44 Often and often 
 have 1 said, 4 That man’s done something. Some day 
 he’ll be found out;’ and now you see.” 
 
 44 It certainly does look like it. But the name is differ- 
 ent. And gentleman, you see, not journalist.” 
 
 44 We are all gentlemen, 1 suppose,” said his wife. 
 
 44 In the city — yes; but we draw the line at journalists.” 
 They stared at each other. 
 
 44 Fifty pounds reward!” said the wife. 
 
 44 1 wonder what’s he’s done,” said the husband. 
 44 Embezzlement, perhaps— forgery, perhaps — ” 
 
 44 Fifty pounds reward!” the wife repeated. 44 Fifty 
 pounds reward! Why shouldn’t we have that money?” 
 
 44 What! and give up our son-in-law to justice? Shame! 
 shame!” 
 
 44 If you come to that, somebody else will very soon give 
 him up. Better you than a stranger. Why, you might 
 make terms for him and still put the money in your 
 pocket. Go yourself and see these lawyers.” 
 
 Mr. Patager stared at his wife. To betray his daugh- 
 ter’s husband was one thing. To ask what the lawyers 
 meant, and if there was no betraying to put fifty pounds 
 in his pocket, was quite another thing. 
 
 44 My poor Nettie,” sighed the mother. 44 What in the 
 world will she do now? Her husband found out — clapped 
 in prison — brought before the judge — found guilty — con- 
 demned to penal servitude — well, it’s one comfort that the 
 headstrong girl got no consent from, us. She went into it 
 of her own stubborn will. You remember she would 
 have the man. ” 
 
 44 She would have him. That’s one comfort. But it’s 
 a dreadful disgrace— think of that. My dear,” he got up 
 
174 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 slowly, “ the least we can do is to warn him. I will step 
 round. He may be able to get off in time. ” 
 
 “I'll come too,” said his wife. “In her time of 
 trouble, Nettie sha'n't say we've deserted her. Besides, 
 we may find out what he's done . 99 
 
 They walked down the road together. The house was 
 in darkness and shut up. No one answered the bell; it 
 was deserted. 
 
 What had happened? 
 
 The pair looked at each other. 
 
 “I know,” said the wife; “he's been warned. He's 
 taken Nettie and the babies and the gal and he's run for 
 it. He will get over to America, where they'll never catch 
 him, and we shall never see Nettie any more.'' 
 
 “I hope it maybe so. I hope he'll getaway — Ido 
 hope he’ll get away.'' 
 
 “ And to-morrow you'll go and see those lawyers and 
 find out what he's wanted for, and you may claim that re- 
 ward. Fifty pounds! It'll come in handy; and since Net- 
 tie's gone out of the way and the babies and all, and no 
 more harm can come to her, and somebody else'll get that 
 money— you go first thing to-morrow morning to the law- 
 yers.'' 
 
 “ Well, my dear, it does seem like betraying of your own 
 flesh and blood, doesn't it? I don't altogether like it.'' 
 
 “ Nonsense. How are you ever going to get on if you 
 won't even pick up what lies at your feet? Now, my 
 dear,'' she turned upon her husband with a kind of fierce- 
 ness, “ what did I always say? What did 1 tell you? A 
 man forced to go into hiding. Now I hope 1 shall be be- 
 lieved another time.'' 
 
 They went home together, but apart, the woman full of 
 a fierce joy— the son-in-law whom she hated had come to 
 grief — the man full of shame and pity. 
 
 In a certain billiard-room Horatio Patager sat watching 
 the game of pool. He never played pool at all, nor bill- 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 175 
 
 iards unless he could find a player worse than himself, be- 
 cause his stroke was uncertain and his play flukey. He 
 sat and looked on. He smoked cigarettes all the time, he 
 laid a shilling on the game now and then, and when he 
 could afford it he drank a whisky and soda. This evening 
 he held in his hand a copy of the 44 Star,” at which he 
 glanced from time to time, but lazily, because this evening 
 the journal was mostly political. Suddenly he started. 
 He changed color. He dropped his cigarette. This was 
 what he read : 
 
 44 Fifty Pounds Rewabd. 
 
 44 The above reward will be paid to any one who will 
 give information as to the present residence of George 
 Atheling, gentleman, formerly of Atheling Court, Bucks, 
 if he is living, or as to the place and date of his death 
 if he is dead. The said George Atheling is about twenty- 
 eight years of age; he is six feet three inches in height; 
 he has blue eyes and dark-brown hair; he is broad-shoul- 
 dered and strong; his voice is low and musical. He has 
 perhaps assumed another name. Address Messrs. Mansfield 
 & Westbury, solicitors, 109 New Square, Lincoln's Inn.” 
 
 44 Why,” he murmured, 44 it’s his very description, It's 
 his likeness to the life; every point of it is his likeness. 
 Six feet three — blue eyes — dark-brown hair — broad-shoul- 
 dered — low voice — there can't be two like him. 4 Gentle- 
 man ' they call him! We're all gentlemen, if you come to 
 that. Of Atheling Court. Name of the place where he 
 comes from. Changed his name. Fifty pounds reward! 
 1 wonder what he's done. I wonder what he'll get. Well, 
 I'm sorry for Nettie, but it serves her right. Fifty pounds 
 reward! Well, I always knew he'd done something. 
 Changed his name. Fifty pounds reward!” 
 
 He left the billiard-room and strolled in the direction of 
 his sister's house. He would look in, perhaps, casually, 
 just to see the man for whose capture they were going to 
 
176 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 give fifty pounds reward. This was the man who ordered 
 Nettie not to lend him anything. Ha! The time had 
 come. Vengeance! 
 
 He could not gaze upon the man at so interesting a crisis 
 of his fortunes, because the house was dark and shut up. 
 “He must have bolted/’ said Horatio, “and has taken 
 Nettie and the kids with him. Never mind — they can 
 easily be followed, and— and — and — I’ll get that reward or 
 I’ll know the reason why.” 
 
 Victoria’s husband, we have seen, read the “ Evening 
 News.” He read it after supper when there was nothing 
 left of the day except an hour of tobacco and rest. 
 
 He, too, chanced presently upon the advertisement. 
 
 “Vic,” he said, changing color, “ what was George 
 Humphrey before he came here?” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Nobody knows, not even Nettie. She 
 pretends to know, but she doesn’t really know. He won’t 
 tell.” 
 
 “ He wasn’t always a penny-a-liner, Vic.” 
 
 “ Very likely not.” 
 
 “ It’s my opinion that he was formerly a gentleman. I 
 mean — of course, we’re all gentlemen, but I mean a swell, 
 with money. There’s swell written all over him, and as 
 for money, he buys things without asking their price. 
 Nobody but a born swell ever does that, and he spends 
 sixpences as if he were made of sixpences.” 
 
 “ What are you driving at, Charlie? There’s something 
 on your mind.” 
 
 “ Well, I told you what the chap from Melbourne said. 
 
 6 No such name in the place,’ he said. Now, let me go 
 on. George was once a swell — I’m sure of it. George is 
 down on his luck. Why? George has got through his 
 money. George has done something — ” 
 
 “ Ah!” cried Vic, looking up and now thoroughly inter- 
 ested. 
 
 “ They always do something when there is no more 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 177 
 
 money. It's the regular rule. They cheat at cards; they 
 welch at races; they run matches in the Cross; they forge 
 their fathers' names. They’ve no principle at all, bless 
 you! It is because the swells are not brought up moral, 
 like us. They can't resist temptation, you see — like us — 
 when it comes. " 
 
 “What do you think he's done, Charlie?" Vic whis-^ 
 pered. 
 
 “Forgery, most likely. Very well. Suppose it was 
 found out and they wanted him, how would they set about 
 it?" 
 
 “ Why, they would advertise for him, I suppose." 
 
 “Just so, just so, Vic. You've exactly hit it, my dear. 
 They would advertise for him. And now listen to this: 
 
 “ 4 Fifty Pounds Keward. 
 
 “ 4 The above reward will be paid to any one who will 
 give information as to the present residence of George 
 Atheling, gentleman, formerly of Atheling Court, Bucks, 
 if he is living, or as to the place and date of his death, if 
 he is dead. The said George Atheling is about twenty- 
 eight years of age; he is six feet three inches in height; he 
 has blue eyes and dark-brown hair; he is broad-shouldered 
 and strong; his voice is low and musical. He has perhaps 
 assumed another name. Address Messrs. Mansfield & 
 Westbury, solicitors, 109 New Square, Lincoln's Inn.' " 
 
 “Good gracious me!" cried his wife. 44 It can't be 
 meant for any other man. It can't be. There are not 
 two men in the world like that. Oh, my poor Nettie! 
 Whatever in the world will she do?" 
 
 44 The very first time 1 saw him," Charlie continued, 
 44 1 said to myself, 4 this man's a real swell — none of your 
 common mashers.' Ever since I've been looking for this. 
 Well, he's had a long rope — " 
 
 44 Whatever in the world will Nettie do?" asked Vic. 
 
178 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “Charlie, 1 shall go and see her this minute. Perhaps 
 she hasn’t even been warned.” 
 
 64 Fifty pounds reward, Vic — fifty pounds reward! 1 
 say, what couldn’t we do with fifty pounds?” 
 
 Nettie was not at home, nor anybody. The house was 
 quite dark and no one answered the bell. 
 
 44 Good gracious!” said Victoria. 44 Something’s hap- 
 pened already. Do you think he’s caught and sent to 
 prison already? Would they let Nettie and the children 
 into the jail with him?” 
 
 44 Fifty pounds reward, Vic. If we don’t touch that 
 money some one else will — and we can’t do Nettie any 
 harm, because he’s certain to be caught. A big man like 
 that has no chance. Shows what a blessed thing it is to be 
 short,” said Charlie, who stood five feet three in his boots. 
 44 1 dare say you’ve often envied Nettie for having such a 
 big husband. Now you’ll see he’s so big that he can’t get 
 away. ” 
 
 At half past nine next morning when the clerks of 
 Mansfield & Westbury began to arrive they found a young 
 fellow, too, waiting outside the door, which is on the first 
 floor. He explained that he had come about an advertise- 
 ment, and he produced the 44 Star” of the day before. 
 He was told that he could come in and wait till the arrival 
 of Mr. Westbury. That event generally happened a little 
 before ten. 
 
 It happened this morning as usual. The young man 
 was asked his name. He said, but nobody believed the 
 statement, that it was 44 concerning an advertisement.” 
 
 Being shown to Mr. Westbury ’s private room, he opened 
 the paper and pointed to the advertisement. 
 
 44 Well, sir?” asked the lawyer. 
 
 44 1 know the house where he lives and the place where 
 he works. Give me the money and I will give you the in- 
 formation.” 
 
 44 Not so fast. Who are you?” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 179 
 
 “ My name is Horatio Patager. I am a clerk in the 
 city. He married my sister. That will show you that I 
 ought to know. ” 
 
 “ Well, sir, 1 am sorry to inform you — ” 
 
 “Ah! well, Fd rather not know — don’t cher know?” 
 Horatio interrupted with a blush, which shows that the 
 young man had still left in him a spark of grace. “ Fd 
 rather not have that information. Keep it to yourself. 1 
 dessay 1 shall hear all about it some time. Give me the 
 money and I’ll tell you where to find him. It’s only a 
 matter of business. I want a few words with a certain 
 gentleman, says you, whose address I happen to have lost. 
 I’ll pay any one who’ll take me to that gentleman, says 
 you. Fifty pounds is the figuie, says you. If that’s all 
 you want, says I, why, the gentleman is my own brother- 
 in-law. Come along and give me the money, and I’ll show 
 you where he lives.” 
 
 “Oh!” 
 
 “ You see, in the city we are all business men. There’s 
 no friendship in business. Everybody knows that. A 
 bargain’s a bargain. I don’t ask what you mean to do 
 with your information — ” 
 
 “ Do you know anything about the previous life of your 
 brother-in-law?” 
 
 “ No, I don’t, but I can pretty well guess,” the young 
 man replied, with a look of so much meaning that the 
 lawyer felt inclined to knock him down off-hand. “ Come, 
 sir, 1 don’t ask what you want hirn for. No doubt ” — he 
 grinned — “ it’s to give him a little fortune. That’s what 
 generally happens when a man is wanted, isn’t it?” 
 
 “ In a word, sir, you have come here with the intention 
 of betraying your own sister’s husband. Well, you will be 
 sorry to learn that you are too late. We know that Mr. 
 George Atheling, otherwise George Humphrey, lives in the 
 Daffodil Road, and we know where that road is ? You can 
 go, sir,’* 
 
180 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 Horatio turned white. Ever since the reading of the 
 advertisement, all through the dark watches of the night, 
 he had been thinking of this glorious windfall. It was 
 already in his grasp; he had his hands upon it. Heavens! 
 what a fling he might have with fifty pounds! And now 
 it was gone. 
 
 “You can go,” the lawyer repeated. 
 
 “I don't believe you know,” cried the disappointed 
 clerk. “ You won't give the money to me, yet I'm the 
 first. It's mine by right— you've advertised it — I'll have 
 it, too, if there's law in the land.'' 
 
 “ Plenty of law — plenty of law. Go and* look for it 
 now, sir.'' 
 
 The lawyer looked big and threatening. Horatio re- 
 tired. 
 
 About eleven there arrived an elderly gentleman who 
 requested to see one of the principals, and said he had 
 called about an advertisement. 
 
 “ Sir,'' he said, “ I have many reasons to believe that 
 the person advertised for in last night's 6 Echo ' is my son- 
 in-law. '' 
 
 “ Indeed! Then you could tell me his place of resi- 
 dence, no doubt?'' 
 
 “ I certainly could. But 1 should like, first of all, to 
 know what he has done. If it's anything very bad — any- 
 thing that brings him within the law— you might be mer- 
 ciful enough to let me know on account of my daughter, 
 poor girl. Her mother has always been of opinion that 
 George has done something and that he is in hiding. For 
 my own part, 1 can not believe otherwise than that he is 
 an honest man. '' 
 
 “ Well, sir?” 
 
 “ My wife thinks that I ought to give this information 
 and to claim the reward, because fifty pounds doesn’t come 
 in our way every day. But 1 say no, not if it is to bring 
 
THE DEM OKI AC. 181 
 
 trouble upon my daughter’s head. Therefore, sir, if it is 
 trouble I will withhold the information and go away.” 
 
 “ Upon my word, sir, I am very sorry that we can not 
 give you the reward under the circumstances. Unfortu- 
 nately, you are too late. We know where to find our 
 man.” 
 
 “Oh!” Mr. Patager sighed, “I am glad that the re- 
 ward will not come to me, though my wife — but you are 
 yourself, perhaps, a married man, sir — and she would 
 have — to me it did seem like selling your daughter’s hus- 
 band.” 
 
 “ Be easy, sir. You shall not sell your son-in-law.” 
 
 “ Then, sir, if 1 may ask the— the reason for the adver- 
 tisement — what my unhappy son-in-law has done — ” 
 
 “ 1 fear, Mr. Patager, that I can not for the moment, 
 inform you. Let it suffice that we know where to find 
 him.” 
 
 “ Shall you send him up for trial? He has a wife and 
 children. Consider, it will be my daughter’s ruin.” 
 
 “Bless the man!” cried the lawyer. “Why will you 
 assume that he has done anything? You shall learn — if 
 it is thought fit to tell you— all in good time. Go home, 
 sir, and be easy. ” 
 
 At half past one, in the dinner-hour, there appeared a 
 third person, again a young man. He said he called about 
 an advertisement. 
 
 “Well, sir,” said Mr. Westbury, “you know where to 
 lay your hand upon the gentleman for whom we are ad- 
 vertising, 1 suppose?” 
 
 “I do, sir.” 
 
 “ And you are come to draw the reward.” 
 
 “I certainly am — as soon as you have received and 
 proved my intelligence. Not before. I am a man of 
 business — in a bank.” 
 
 “Mr. Atheling’s brother, or cousin, or father, I sup- 
 pose?” 
 
182 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “I married his wife’s sister. That is how I know. 
 Well, sir, you want his address. I can give it. I don’t 
 ask what he has done or why you want him. ” 
 
 “ Just so. You are a purely disinterested person, anx- 
 ious only that justice shall be done even on your nearest 
 relatives?” 
 
 “As for that,” said the virtuous Charles, “I’ve got 
 nothing to do with justice. I answer an advertisement.” 
 
 “ Quite so. Well, sir, your truly honorable purpose is 
 defeated. You can tell your brother-in-law that you 
 wished to sell him, but that you were anticipated.” 
 
 “ Is it Horatio?” Charles asked, anxiously. “ He is 
 quite capable of it. I hope that you will consider, sir. I 
 came here as soon as I could. I submit that half of the 
 reward should be mine — half — things are very tight. My 
 screw is only a hundred and fifty.” 
 
 The lawyer pointed to the door. 
 
 In the course of the day a great many people came 
 “about the advertisement.” In fact, it was so easy to 
 spot the man from the description that every one who saw 
 the advertisement and knew George Humphrey by ap- 
 pearance immediately rushed to the solicitors’ in hopes of 
 getting that reward. Thus the family butcher, the family 
 baker, the family grocer, the family milkman, the family 
 shoemaker, the policeman, the pew-opener, the proprietor 
 of the Clerkland “ Observer,” the printers of that paper, 
 the office-boy — all came and said they wanted fifty pounds 
 for their information. They all said they knew the gen- 
 tleman and where he lived. They mostly added that they 
 could guide anybody to the house so that he could be 
 “ taken up ” without trouble. This shows what inferences 
 are drawn when a man is advertised. And they went away 
 in great sadness when they found they were too late. How 
 seldom comes such a chance! 
 
 One has watched the people who stand in front of the 
 proclamation outside police stations — “ Murder ! Om 
 
THE DEM OH I AC. 
 
 183 
 
 Hundred Pounds Reward V 9 How eagerly they read the 
 notice. How they yearn and long and pray for the oppor- 
 tunity of betraying some poor wretch to his doom. There 
 are cases on record in which a man having once gained 
 such a reward, has given up honest work forever after and 
 now lives in the hope of getting another. Nay, it is said 
 that he even endeavors to play the part of Jonathan 
 Wild, though in these days of suspicion it is a difficult 
 metier . However this may be, there certainly are men 
 who dream continually of getting such a prize, just as 
 there are men who dream of winning a prize in an Austrian 
 lottery. 
 
 Next day there were more applicants, and the day after, 
 and for many days — belated unfortunates who only saw 
 the paper the day after — miserable thus to miss a chance 
 so rare. As the years roll on and the chance never comes 
 again, many little romances will grow up, how the fifty- 
 pound prize was missed by an hour, by half an hour, by a 
 quarter of an hour, by ten minutes, five, three, one; by a 
 couple of yards after a race all the way — by a foot, a neck, 
 a nose. It will be a distinction even to have been beaten 
 by a whole day. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Patager were in low spirits. Their son-in- 
 law had been advertised for; everybody knew by this time 
 the disgraceful fact There would be but one opinion — he 
 had done something, the nature of which could not be as- 
 certained. He had fled. His wife had gone with him. 
 The advice of the lawyer to keep his mind easy failed to 
 comfort Mr. Patager. How to face the neighbors? How 
 to stand up in the family pew with all eyes turned in their 
 direction? How to carry round the plate after the serv- 
 ice, conscious that everybody was whispering, “ and his 
 son-imlaw has been obliged to fly the country?” 
 
 They were alone. Horatio was out, as usual, seeking 
 consolation on the flowery path. 
 
134 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 “ We are disgraced,” said the father. “ 1 suppose it 
 will soon become known in the city. I shall never get 
 over the shame of it. ” 
 
 Mr. Patager is not the only man who thinks that the 
 eyes of the whole city are always watching him with envy 
 and respect. Indeed, it is a wholesome belief and has led 
 to the foundation of many chantries, chapels, and alms- 
 houses, and schools, and it keeps many young men 
 straight. 
 
 “I always said it. I always said it.” The confirma- 
 tion, so to speak, of the prophetic gift is the commonest 
 form of consolation. 
 
 “ You always did, my dear. We shall remember that. 
 It does your penetration the highest credit. You always 
 said that he’d done something.” 
 
 “ Something disgraceful, 1 said.” 
 
 “ Something disgraceful — yes, of course, something dis- 
 graceful.” 
 
 Here the door opened and Victoria appeared. 
 
 “Oh, my dear!” her mother groaned; “ here's an 
 awful thing. However in the world shall we get over it? 
 Well, I always said — you remember, Victoria — 1 always 
 said that he must have committed some dreadful crime.” 
 
 “ Stuff and rubbish!” replied her daughter, wrathf ully. 
 “ Crime, indeed!” 
 
 “ Why, he’s been advertised for.” 
 
 “ Yes, and I wish they’d advertise for Charlie on the 
 same terms. He went round at dinner-time to inquire 
 about the reward, you know — but of course Horatio was 
 before him. That boy is capable of any meanness. 1 sup- 
 pose he’s out now, spending the reward at the music- 
 halls.” 
 
 “ The disgrace of it!” moaned the elder lady, wringing 
 her hands.” 
 
 “You and your disgrace!” Vic replied, shortly. 
 “ Why, it’s money! That’s what it is. There’s no crime 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 185 
 
 in it, and no shame, and no disgrace. You ought to be 
 ashamed to be so ready with your crimes. I suppose 
 you'll say next that Charlie has disgraced himself.” 
 
 “ Money?” asked the father. 
 
 “ They’re back again. Now look. George was at John 
 Carew’s last night and he was taken very bad — awful bad. 
 Nettie hurried round there with the children, because he 
 thought he might die. She nursed him all night. He’s 
 better this morning, and the lawyers saw him. That’s all 
 the story. Now they’ve come back.” 
 
 “ Money? How much?” 
 
 “ I don’t know how much. You know Nettie — how 
 close she’s always been about her husbands She won’t tell 
 me how much. He’d changed his name for reasons, and 
 they wanted to know whether he was dead or alive. Dis- 
 grace? As if George — our George — could disgrace him- 
 self. Mother, I’m ashamed of you — such a suspicion!” 
 Here was a volteface worthy of a politician. 
 
 “ Come, Yic, you’ve said yourself — a hundred times — ” 
 “ No, mother, not that, if you please. 1 may have 
 heard you say it, and I know my duty and perhaps I shall 
 have children of my own; but disgrace — with George — 
 George Atheling, gentleman, of Atheling Court? Our 
 Nettie’s George? And him with money! Mother, I’m 
 ashamed of you, 1 am!” 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 66 Tell Elinor,” said George, “ that I have taken her 
 at her word. I shall see her again when 1 can go back to 
 her as I once thought myself — master of myself; and not 
 till then.” 
 
 “You are already master of yourself. You proved it 
 last night,” said the professor. 
 
 “It is not enough to prove it once. I have to prove it 
 
186 
 
 HIE DEMONIAC. 
 
 again. Yet two months more, and the time will have 
 come round for the next attack . 99 
 
 44 You need have no fear- now.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. I am now convinced that the fury of 
 last night’s attack and of every second night is due to the 
 yielding of the first night. No, 1 have little fear. But 
 we shall see. Meantime, Nettie knows all. 1 have con- 
 cealed nothing from her. She agrees with me that until I 
 can feel myself really a free man 1 have no right to res_ume 
 my old place. When 1 can do so, 1 will return and bring 
 her with me and the children — 99 
 
 44 Yes, to your old place — your own place — and the old 
 ambitions.” • 
 
 George shook his head. 
 
 44 Not the old ambitions. They are gone. They are 
 impossible henceforth. My career was ruined that first 
 night at Cambridge when, half mad and half asleep, 1 
 seized the whisky bottle. The man who has once been a 
 slave can never afterward command. The spirit of au- 
 thority is gone from him. He may become a free 
 man, but never with the old mastership. You know the 
 old galley-slave by the dragging leg. All the rest of my 
 life you will see the dragging leg of the man who has been 
 a slave. Henceforth the best thing 1 can hope is to live 
 retired and to do no harm to anybody.” 
 
 They returned to Daffodil Boad. 
 
 George repaired as usual to the office of hi^s paper next 
 morning. He was received with universal astonishment. 
 Everybody stared at him. They thought, you see, that he 
 was already arrested and lodged in prison. Except for the 
 actual details of the crime everything was certain. Yet 
 here he was turning up again as if nothing had happened. 
 
 The proprietor beckoned him into his private room. 
 Here he showed him the advertisement. 
 
 44 Well?” asked George, reading it. 44 The advertise- 
 ment is meant for me. Do you mean that? I have al- 
 
THE DEMOXIAC. 187 
 
 ready seen the solicitors about the business. What is the 
 meaning of all this mystery ?” 
 
 “Why, I thought — it’s no use bouncing about it — 
 there's time yet if you like — ” he jerked his left thumb 
 over his left shoulder. 
 
 “ Oh, you think I was wanted — what is called — ” 
 
 “ I’m sure you are. Can’t think anything else.” 
 
 “ I suppose not. Fortunately, however, it was not the 
 police who wanted me, you see, but my friends.” 
 
 ■“Oh!” The proprietor’s face dropped. “You are 
 going to stay, after all?” 
 
 “ For a time — yes. ” 
 
 The proprietor’s expressive countenance showed the 
 greatest disappointment. “Ah!” he said, “ it’s a great 
 pity. It would have made a splendid bill. Look here — 
 I’ve had it set up already.” He showed a poster all in red 
 and all the words in separate lines and big capitals. “ Ar- 
 rest of the Sub-Editor! Fifty Pounds Reward! At- 
 tempted Flight! Too Late! The Crime! The Perpetra- 
 tor! The Motive! Alleged Confession! The Ruined 
 Home! The Desolate Hearth! Where is Father? A 
 Weeping Wife!” 
 
 “Dear me!” said George, looking at the work of art 
 critically. “ What a pity that such a splendid bill should 
 be wasted!” 
 
 “ A pity truly. And you look on as if you didn’t care 
 twopence.” 
 
 “ Well, 1 don’t, if you come to that. Do you want me 
 to stop outside and commit a crime or two for the sake of 
 your poster?” 
 
 “You may laugh, sir, as much as you like.” The 
 proprietor’s temper, like his figure, was short. “ But Jet 
 me tell you, sir, that no one in my employ laughs at me. 
 No one, sir — no one, no one.” 
 
 “ Very well. Then I leave your employment at once.” 
 George put on his hat in token of emancipation. “ Now 
 
188 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 that I have left it 1 suppose you will allow me to laugh at 
 you.” 
 
 The proprietor, fat and pursy, looked up at the great 
 giant and trembled. He remembered that he had never 
 had a sub-editor half or quarter so good and never should 
 get another like him. So he made haste to excuse him- 
 self. 
 
 “ You might make a little allowance, Mr. Humphrey, 
 for my little disappointment. No one knows better than 
 you what a fillip it would have given the paper.” 
 
 “ So it would — so it would. Well, let us go on again 
 for a bit.” George was placable. He took off his hat and 
 resumed his usual seat. “ Hand me the scissors and the 
 paste,” he said. “ Pass the pen and ink. 1 remain the 
 sub-editor.” 
 
 In the months of August and September, when even the 
 residents of this quarter manage something of a holiday, 
 except when things are at their very tightest, George con- 
 tinued at his desk working as before. By tacit consent the 
 night of the great conflict was never spoken of between his 
 wife and himself. They were to wait for the next battle 
 and its result. After a second decisive victory the future 
 would be considered. Great changes cast their shadows 
 before. Nettie was already conscious that the little house 
 was too little; new wants were already budding in her 
 brain; a higher standard of household expenditure was at- 
 tained and daily practiced. 
 
 “ Four weeks from to-day, dear,” said George, on the 
 first of September. 
 
 “You are looking stronger than ever, George. lean 
 see a change in you. Your very eyes are stronger.” 
 
 “ Three weeks from to-day,” he said, on the eighth of 
 September. 
 
 “ If you fought well that night, dear,” she said, “you 
 will fight ten times as well in three weeks from to-day.” 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 189 
 
 44 Only a fortnight,” he said on the fifteenth. 
 
 44 The sooner it comes the better. I shall be with you, 
 as I was before, all night long.” 
 
 44 Only a week now,” he said, on the twenty-second. 
 
 44 That is all, dear. We shall soon have it over now.” 
 
 44 This evening, dear — ” It was the twenty-ninth. 
 
 44 Go for a walk, George. Take a good long walk. Tire 
 yourself if you can, and think of nothing but of victory 
 and strength. These great arms — these broad shoulders. 
 What a man you are, George! Never was such a strong 
 man. You are born to be a fighting man, George. ” 
 
 44 You are a flattering siren. Well, I am a little nerv- 
 ous and a little excited. 1 will go for that walk and make 
 it last all day. We will have dinner at half past seven. 
 After that, we will gird on the armor and wait.” 
 
 44 Do you think that man will come?” 
 
 44 1 don't know. He has made no signs since July. 
 Let him come if he likes. ” 
 
 He went out and stayed out, walking along the gritty 
 road fifteen measured miles out and fifteen back again. 
 He came home a little tired, but looking in splendid con- 
 dition. They talked of other things — the children — trivial 
 things of the household. But from time to time Nettie 
 glanced at her husband. He grew silent and thoughtful. 
 His face was set. She had seen it so, but harder, more 
 determined, on that night when he made her hold his 
 hands, as if her very touch could give him strength. 1 
 verily believe that no act of his had so much endeared him 
 to his wife" as that little prayer that she would hold his 
 hand while he went down into the mouth of hell. 
 
 The evening was dark and cold. The lamp had long 
 been lighted; a fire was burning on the hearth; the chil- 
 dren were in bed; the pair sat opposite each other, neither 
 speaking. 
 
 Suddenly, without any preliminary ringing of the bell 
 
190 
 
 THE DEMONTAC. 
 
 or monitory knocker, the door opened noiselessly and the 
 man Mavis stood before them. 
 
 He stood with down-dropped eyes, holding his hat in his 
 two hands. His cheeks seemed paler than ever. He said 
 nothing; not a word. 
 
 4 6 George!” Nettie sprung to her feet and threw her 
 arms round his neck. 46 You shall not go with this man 
 — you shall not!” 
 
 44 Don’t be afraid, my dear. Why do you come here to- 
 night, Mavis?” 
 
 44 You forge.t. It is the usual time. I am not here be- 
 fore my time. Business at Boston.’'’ 
 
 44 Oh! I thought you understood at the end of last July 
 that I had given up that job. No more business at Bos- 
 ton for me, Mavis — and no more business with you. ” 
 
 Mavis took one step into the room. 
 
 44 1 don’t think, sir,” he said, becoming the man-servant 
 again, 44 that I rightly understand. You are never going 
 to give up that business in Boston. You can’t do it, sir — 
 excuse my speaking before your good lady, but you can’t 
 do it. To-night the job must be begun. Think of that 
 night aboard ship. Think of last J uly only — there was a 
 job!” 
 
 44 It was, Mavis, a devil of a job. Well, I now speak 
 quite plainly. The cottage is held by a yearly tenancy— I 
 shall not renew it. Your service can be determined at a 
 month’s notice. Take that notice. There will then be three 
 months’ wages due to you.” He got up, took his check- 
 book from a drawer, and wrote a check. 44 There they 
 are. You can go. I dismiss you.” 
 
 44 After five years’ faithful service? It’s hard — ” Mavis 
 began. 
 
 44 Don’t whimper. Mavis. You’ve had out of me dur- 
 ing the last three years the best part of a thousand pounds. 
 I drew a thousand pounds when I came to live here. I 
 have kept myself and my house on my earnings. You’ve 
 
THE DEMONIAC, 
 
 had that thousand pounds. Come now — it’s three hun- 
 dred a year. You must have saved a hundred and fifty 
 a year at least out of that. And then there’s that 
 check of five thousand pounds — a good lump sum, Mavis 
 — d,oes you credit — that you got out of me at a certain 
 critical moment when 1 did not know what 1 was doing, 
 yet could do what 1 was told to do. That was a great 
 stroke, Mavis. That does you great credit.” 
 
 “ You gave it to me of your own free will — I’ll swear 
 you did.” 
 
 “ You may swear if you please. 1 suppose I gave you 
 that second check of five thousand pounds as well— the one 
 you lost, 1 mean. Now, Mavis, there was a third person 
 present on that occasion who looked on and overheard 
 everything — a person in the garden, and the window was 
 open — well, have you got anything more to say?” 
 
 Mavis turned to go. He had nothing more to say. 
 
 “ Stay, Mavis. I am curious to know what you propose 
 to do. You have got, I take it, during these five years 
 something like six or seven thousand pounds quietly put 
 by.” Mavis smiled. “ What are you going to do?” 
 
 “ I shall go back to Cambridge.” 
 
 “ Not to be a gyp again?” 
 
 “ No, sir. 1 did intend going back before, but I was 
 anxious about that second check which you really did give 
 me, but took it away again. I shall go back to Cambridge 
 and shall do a little money-lending. The gentlemen are 
 not what they were, neither for drink nor for betting and 
 gambling. But there’s still money to be made, and I’m a 
 prudent man, sir, as you could testify.” 
 
 44 1 could indeed. Farewell, Mavis. ” 
 
 “I would only wish to say, sir, that if on any future 
 occasion — say to-night, to-morrow night — you want me 
 you have only to send for me. I bear no grudge, sir, for 
 your changing your mind about the second check, and it 
 was a good lump for gratitude, wasn’t it? I’ll come 
 
192 
 
 THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 whenever you send for me. And I can stay as long as 
 you like. On the old terms.” 
 
 He was gone. The wife breathed again. 
 
 George filled and lighted a pipe, which he worked 
 through without a word. Then he spoke. 46 There were 
 once, my dear,” he began, 44 two boys at school. One 
 was a bully and the other a coward. The bully licked the 
 coward once a week. After a year or two the coward 
 began to feel ashamed. One day he stood up to the bully 
 and licked Mm. A week later the bully came back and 
 offered battle once more. I shall now, my dear, go up- 
 stairs and have it out with that bully.” 
 
 At two o’clock in the morning he started from his sleep 
 panting, gasping, rolling his shoulders. 
 
 His wife, who watched beside him, caught his hand. 
 4C George!” she cried, 44 George! 1 am here. Rouse your- 
 self. Remember.” 
 
 He opened his eyes and saw her. 44 Take my hand,” he 
 murmured. 44 The devil has come again.” 
 
 Why, this battle was over in a quarter of an hour. It 
 was nothing compared with the long and doubtful combat 
 of that second night. 
 
 44 It is gone, my dear,” he said. 44 Give me a glass of 
 water. Thank God ! I have got the mastery at last.” 
 
 He lay back and fell asleep instantly. 
 
 There remained the second attack. Again George went 
 out for a long walk. Again he came home tired. 44 1 
 ought to sleep well to-night,” he said, cheerfully. He was 
 in the best of spirits and full of courage. He expected no 
 further trouble at all. 
 
 At nine o’clock he took a pipe. Nettie, exhausted with 
 yesternight’s watching, began to fall asleep in her chair. 
 He persuaded her to go to bed, promising to awaken her if 
 he was roused by the old symptoms. Alas! she obeyed. 
 She left him alone. Many mistakes had been committed 
 in the management of this case, none so fatal as the last. 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 
 
 193 
 
 He presently laid down his pipe. His eyes drooped. He 
 too fell asleep. It was then only nine. He slept peace- 
 fully in his chair till past eleven. 
 
 Then he awoke with a start and sprung to his feet. 
 Once more the old overwhelming wave of a longing, yearn- 
 ing, irresistible thirst seized him. As of old, he resisted 
 no longer. 
 
 He reeled out of the room, panting; he seized his hat, 
 threw open the door, and ran down the steps. At the 
 garden gate stood Mavis — faithful creature — waiting. 
 Was he, then, a prophet? 
 
 44 I expected you,” he said. 44 Come, it will take us a 
 quarter of an hour and more. Why didn’t you come yes- 
 terday?” 
 
 64 You are the devil himself,” said George. 
 
 Half an hour later the first force of the attack had been 
 met in the usual manner. For awhile it was spent. 
 George sat in the old place, in the arm-chair at the head 
 of the table in the dingy room, the bottles before him. 
 He looked around him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered. He thought of Nettie and 
 the children. He leaned his head on his hands. He was 
 as yet only at the beginning of a great surrender. He. was 
 still sober, even though he had surrendered. At such a 
 time half a bottle of ardent drink hardly counts. 
 
 44 1 have half an hour to spare,” he said, 44 before it 
 comes again. Perhaps less. Well, I must be quick.” 
 
 He drew out his pocket-book and found a post-card. 
 He wrote a few lines on it and addressed it. Then he rose 
 and put on his hat. 
 
 44 1 am going to post this note,” he said. 
 
 44 Let me post it for you, sir,” said Mavis, respectfully. 
 
 44 No; go on mixing the drink.” 
 
 He went out. At the head of the lane he knew there 
 was a pillar post* He walked up the lane and dropped his 
 post-card. 
 
 7 
 
THE DEM OKI AC. 
 
 i\ \ia V 
 
 J94 f 
 
 44 There,” he murmured, 44 the thing is as good as 
 done.” He turned and walked back. But when he 
 reached the gate he stopped. 
 
 “ Devil!” he said, 44 1 am going to cheat you at last. ” 
 
 The lane continues eastward a little when it reaches the 
 river Lea, which is here crossed by one of the many bridges 
 which span it on its southward course. 
 
 He leaned over the bridge and looked at the water. 
 
 44 1 knew all along,” he said, 44 that the devil would be 
 too cunning. For Nettie's sake — lor the children's 
 sake — ” He climbed over the bridge leisurely. Again he 
 looked down into the dark water. His throat began to 
 burn. It was the beginning of the next attack. He 
 laughed. 44 You are too late, devil,” he said. 44 Five 
 minutes ago — now you are too late.” He dropped into 
 the water. 
 
 When John Oarew came out of his bedroom, he found 
 on the top of his letters a post-card with a note in pencil: 
 
 “The Cottage, Midnight. 
 
 44 The devil has proved too strong, after all. For Net- 
 tie's sake I shall put an end to the whole business imme- 
 diately. I am going to drop off the High Bridge into the 
 river Lea, where you will find me, I dare say, if you look. 
 Ask Elinor for my sake to be kind to Nettie and the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 4 4 George.” 
 
 Nettie was wandering about the house. She could not 
 sit still. She could not settle to anything. 
 
 She had slept all through the night until eight in the 
 morning. Then she awoke to find that George was already 
 up and dressed. That did not alarm her much at first. 
 But she discovered that his night things were still lying in 
 their place, neatly folded, and that his pillow showed no 
 marks of pressure upon it. She hurried down -stairs. He 
 
THE DEMONIAC. 195 
 
 was not there. He had not gone to bed at all. He was 
 gone out. 
 
 Strange! Perhaps he had had a hard night, but he 
 promised to waken her — perhaps he had only gone out for 
 a walk. He would come home to breakfast. But he did 
 not. Then her mind began to be filled with vague misgiv- 
 ings, and then with anxieties, and then with terrors. 
 
 About twelve o’clock a carriage drew up before the door, 
 and Nettie saw John Oarew and a lady get out of it, and 
 observed that their faces were grave and that the lady was 
 weeping. Then Nettie’s face became white and her heart 
 stood still. 
 
 “John Carew!” she cried, springing to meet him, 
 “ where is George? Where is George?” 
 
 John Carew took her by both hands. “ Nettie,” he 
 said, “ Nettie, my dear old friend — ” but here he broke 
 down. His voice turned into a sob, his eyes overflowed. 
 “ Tell her, Elinor,” he said; “ 1 can not.” He left the 
 room and shut the door. 
 
 In the evening the Patager family were gathered to- 
 gether, solemn, awed, and yet important. 
 
 “ There will be an inquest,” said the father. “ He fell 
 over accidentally, 1 suppose. He will be buried in his own 
 church — his own church— near the family mansion — near 
 the family mansion — the mansion. It will be in all the 
 papers. They will question me in the city about my rich 
 son-in-law.” 
 
 “ The young lady has carried off Nettie and the chil- 
 dren,” said Victoria. “Poor Nettie! she doesn’t even 
 know what is said to her. She looks stupid. But,” she 
 sighed, “ seven thousand pounds a year! It is — oh, seven 
 thousand pounds a year! At such a time as this it is im- 
 possible to speak of money. All our thoughts are of 
 mourning. But — oh, seven thousand pounds a year!” 
 
 THE END. 
 
•'?/(!!: 1 1 
 
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 THE LIBRARY OF HIE 
 jflN 2 8 1933 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNm