MY LORD.

Dominion, Volume 7, Issue 1940, 24 December 1913, Page 10

MY LORD.

My Lord is'young ;'wiih' : -George 1A 7 . He- loses a "fortune-at .play," and-'an-other, amassed by a pious -aunt in tho country, at all sorts of devilries. Ho lias thrashed the watch '-and staked an estate.on tho-'cards in an evening. ■'■ He records inany years. after how ho' enters tho ring with the-Regent, and how tho First .Gentleman ■in Europe, with an exquisite ease and urbanity, confesses himself beaten.

My Lord is on the turf, wltoro lis wins and flings aiv-ay a. Mi-htuo with a mad generosity: where he, loses, . and does not retrench. Ha is dressed with tho carelessness that- is a part of his nature, and with a richness that becomes tho Court of tho Regent. My Lord can sing a song with tho host over his wine, and take his two bottles —like a gentleman. His speech is garnishee), even in very old age, with those flotrers of expression which weroin universal vogue in his youth. Ho recalls, forty years later, a. hundred stories, of that mad career of pleasure. He.remembers with a curious accuracy a thousand details respecting his companions aud the manners and habits of that wild day. He knows, and retails . with perfect wit _ and point, a thousand stories of the # Court which liavo never crept into print- His reminiscences ' aro as interesting as a book of scandalous memoirs.

My Lord, indeed, lias pretty well j beggared himself before ho is thirty. He marries money. And money in the person of a shrewish wife is false to his honour and her own. His daughter, who belongs to her mother's faction, rnarrios abroad, aad is lost to him for ever. His sou, from whom ho has hoped everything, is''not only wild— which indeed My Lord should be ono to forgive easily—but brings dishonour on a great jiamo and dies misorabiy. My Lord is not yet sixty years old when, ho retires to Hartiblin, the estate in the country which his extravagances liavo left heavily mortgaged, and his neglect has loft out of repair. A number of evil stories, gathering astonishingly in volume and flavour at every stage of tho journey, have followed him from town. Virtue points out with her positive finger that this old age of poverty, solitude, and disappointment is but the just and natural harvest of that astonishing crop of wild oats sown in that wild youth. When My Lord, therefore, appears in the village with his lean figure stooping a little, and his narrow eyes extraordinarily bright and keen, ho excites that exceeding interest and curiosity which it is believed arc never roused by anything less entertaining than a reputation for iniquity. Some persons aro quite shocked to see _ him in church on Sunday. There is a terrible story current of him for a little whilo, tii tho effect that ho docs not know the position of tho Psalms .in tho Liturgy.,. But lio soon mends this error, aiid lives a lifo of so much retirement, simplicity, and apparently virtue, as to becomo wholly uninteresting to everybody. After a timo My Lord takes unto himself a domestic Chaplain, who lives wit-h him tho greater part of tho year. Tho Chaplain is round-faced, benevolent, and kindly, with a full ohiu above his white tic, bespeaking a_ hundred pleasant human virtues. Tho Chaplain enjoys port wiiiu in tho most hottest moderation—is W no senso an ascetic—has a heart full of charity ami good-will for all men—a kindly sense of humour, and a very truo and selfrespecting affection for My Lord his patron. "I don't come to church to hoar your sermons, Ruther, you know," says My Lord, "which aro damned long ami prosy—you know they aro. I corno to look at vour wifo listening to thfiri.' Tho Chaplain's .wifo, whom he calls Miriam, is very sweat and simple and ' delicate. , Miriam ! has brown curia shading a*clear forehead, a brown silk frock revealing sloping Early Victorian shoulders, and tho most tender, candid eyes in all tho world. Miriam is of gentler birth than her husband', whom she loves and reveres as at onc-o tho cieversfc, dearest, and best of created < beings. : '.J- ■ , . ■ \tv' Lord has net often met tlsn i '"Miriam tvpo of woman. Perhaps never before.' *At first ho does not, understand her. .' Ho looks at her across the. slimier':.-!tablo. with bis unsteady band playing with his glass and fl sort of ' ■.iK'i'ploxity in his shrewd old eyes. " So. damned; innocent-," lie says to himself. • ~"So?; danptcd , innocent." '... Perhaps ■■ .damned., innocence ; has. not been tho ■'le;ulii!j;.'''cliaraetei'istic .'of tho lady acquaintances of his youth, He wonders at it a little at .least—in Miriam— ,'asMf it'were some new thing. -,

.■ ■ His ■ w-orider';?indocd,-' gives place very soon to- another' feeling. Ho has at last-:for 'this,-woman'- tlie purest and ..'teiidereat-alfoct-ioii he lias.ever known.

r'V'ii-,havertho devil of a reputation, P.uilunv'. ; says ?,ord,,. grimly. "Don't you do :me .. the honour to bo ; jcaloiis'fof ; . "Xo. • ii:y Lord,"' r-ays: ih<r. Chaplain, ■■ipokingiat his My':JiOrdi'hns ; : for,;. Miriam"; lie.-might- have\.fi'lt to; a. ch'i'!. i'ofSh'isVpwn'^iswr'r"-s

'K-A'i iriam^'iippoals;'.tov'- -'Lord'sj/ancieift! 'sciiio of humour. '.11.6:' likes', to hour.

: iicr'say ! :!;"Hiis!i i hei ;- y shacked gentle- voice, from ; j immemorial h habit'he- ornaments';his'spctch.Mvilii -.an ! oath.. He lias, not..the<kssta•?most')i lender respect for her j slic asks questions,'in };er damned in-' ; liocpnce, about his youth, : lie 'hoivdlerisiis liis oid stories to an" extent that. j tlio Chaplain does not- even., rccogniso , them. '» ': ■ "I lie lwrribly," says My'Lnrclwhen Miriam lias left tlie two to their wine. "Past absolution, «ii s Butherf"

. But tiio Chaplain, who may very .possibly bo right, thinks not. ;.*>3Jiriam's most siaunch _ and simple • beliefjhivXlv Lord's goodness amuses : him.;, vastly at lirst. Another feeling 'mingles;,. with liis amusement alter ii while-as' he looks into her clear eyes.

"We vn'ii! a curseil bml lot in ihose ■{Isvs/.'sJie ; tays/you lmew how .'sad .you. wouldn't ! iiai'o.anj'tliiug to say lo IKC "

.. Jstii Miri;VmVsiys;:Vjye^ and nods her?head ■ so' : that'; tho's.brown Victorian curls shake a litt!o,. and puts, .jicr gcniic uanti.tor *• moment into.3ly' Lord's wizened old fingers, ; ' tlia first time in lils'-liiV'the' '.wifclncss of his youth'rests a little l tineasilv upon that accommodating organ which is called Sly Lard's conscience.

. "Gad!" he says, with that •.light cynicism of manner which may or may not hid® a deeper fooling. "I feci almost likh a convert. ' No thanks to your prosy old preachings, Bother. Don't Hatter yourself."

And indeed the Chaplain, who is tho ■■most humble and simple of. men, does not do so at all.

In tho summer mornings it is Miriam's lmbit i<j play with her children on the great sloping lawns before the house. My Lord watches her more often than he knows perhaps from tho open windows of his library. Sho comes into see him sometimes, and looks -up with a soft wilfulness in her prottv eyes at the great books <m their shelves.

"J. wish I could read sotno of these," she says, taking down a French work and holding it up to him. , "God forbid!" says My Lord piously. But indeed Miriam's French is neither of a quantity nor quality to do her any lmrm.

She goes back to tlio children presently. Sly Lord sits along with the hook, which ho docs not read, before him. l-Io has aged rapidly lately. If© fcols sometimes very old indeed. The hand, with tho ruiHes of a long-past fashion hanging over it,'is very lean and unsteady. He puts down at first to approaching senility a certain odd •sensation of something that- might almost lie shanio for that wild past that comes to him with Miriam. ■■■ Ho ascribes to a weakened intelligence a sort of emotion ho knows when Miriam plays Handel and Haydn in tho half lights at tho harpsichord. Sometimes on Sunday evenings, after dinner, and iK-foro tho darkness has eorno, she drans out tho harp from its corner and sings to it in the sweetest voice, in tho world. Sho sings to it the old religious music which is of no fiisliion, hnt for all timo. Her white frock and tho fair piety of her bout faen make one of her hearers at least- think, as it is probable lie lias not often tlirought before, of tho. angels. He sits, as he has told tho Chaplain, during tho prosy 'discourses on Sunday "ami looks at her tender rapt fao® and her quiet folded hands. Sho 'brings the children to h'ini seniotinips. One night he catches sight of her in tho room' set apart as a nursery bending over 0110 of them in its cot, with a face all beautiful, human, and maternal, ami her lips moving in a prayer. His seared old heart is touched 1 jit this timo by a thousand emotions which it has nove'r known, cr to which it lim long been. dead. He is loss cynical — to Miriam. Tho stories of his wikt youth havo lost, some of their aUrac-, ifcm'for liiiu, aid 'ho relates them; e?en to tho Chaplain, 'very seldom.

Is it a conversion, as he has suggested with a sneer? God knows! Is a conversion possible at three-score years' and ten, with a character formed by immemorial habit and marked with tho impression of a life? God knows also. , One dav My Lord is taken ill. It is a long illness, to which there can bo no cud biit ojio. He lies in the great state bedroom, in the great state bed which has sheltered .three sovereigns. If ho bo changed in heart,, as is- surmised, ho is scarcely in manner at all. Tho simplicity of Miriam, his gentle nurse, at once amuses and touches him a thousand times a day. Ho tells lier, in a voica somewhat feebler than usnal, the royal anecdotes of that royal bedchamber. Ho likes to watch Ivor absorbed, reverent face as sho listens; for, Miriam is loyalist to the core, as a good woman should be, and has tho Divine of Kingfl written indelibly on her simple heart. ■ "But they wore human, too—some of thorn," finishes My Lord'with a sort of chuckle, and turning on his pillow to look at his listener.

Sho sits by his side the greater part | of tho day. Sho brings her prayerbook mid a volumo of sermons given to her on hev marriage. My Lord listens ivith an exemplary pat-ienca to tho 1-oms-wimlfid Wordiness of tho Georgian divine. Ho thinks, by a certain stoplessnoss in the voider'a method, that she does not always grasp the somewhat obscure meaning. He is sure by hor sweet voice and tender face: that siio ia wholly edified nevertheless, Sometimes during tho readings sho puts oho of tho bnbi.es on the loot of the patient's hod, that ho may have the inestimable privilege of looking at it when ho feels inclined. '"Sep us, Rutber," says My Lord when the Chaplain limls them thus <me day. "After my way of living, doesn't this strike you as a damned odd way of dying?'' On Sunday Miriam reads tho Order for Morning Prayer with My Lord stumbling Ujvo>is!i the wspousw. The situation' strikes him as ludicrous nl, first; but. Miriam is very sweet an«! grave ami good. Ho hears tho rhythm of W voic'fl in tho tender majesty of tho old'prayers as ouo hoars _ sweet sinking in a dream. Miriam is iniiliiiolv couseicuiiuu.'-j and reads every one, And when tho Chaplain points out to her that, in consideration of tho patient's' weakness, sho might omit to pray for tho Parliament, My Lord from ftw bed toys, '.'No, no. Dammv. thev need it," and begs that Miriam may be left to her own devico!> i 11 i lly LavcV grows gradually weaker as tho simiriser advances. Before tho flowers have faded and tho leaves fallen ho is too weak to tail; at alt. Ho sleep 3 a great deal. When ho is awake his eyes loiloff Miriam, and when sho is more divinely simple than -usual "his lipswear a smi'le. It is apparent that when sho leaver, him he is uneasy. Her simplicity ia worth at such ft time all tho wit and sprightliiwsß iu tho world. Before the end conios, in a sulti'v nio-h't, My Lord talks ramblingly, with alvmv strength, of his wild youth, of tho compAHfovis long dead, who belonged ■\vith himself to a socicty most brilliant, corrupt, nnd artificial Ho starts o«ioo from his pillow with an oath. liy his bedside Miriam ia kneeling bowiklered, a whito figure in the hali-doru-iiesa. ' „ . Ho repeats the- snatch of ft wild song ■ in his dving voice, and cries, with an {•seceding bitter orv, the name of the son ■wiio°di3!iraocd it. . . . . lint, before lie dies, ■ for 0110 nniet 'moment his reason comes back to him. And Oie last impression on tho mind of My Lord, who has been a sinner,. is of Miriam with dear uplifted face.and folded hands. ■ «:■

S?iA Iwll iii 'a iomple in-North-Chilians ilirpu j.lumt-.'-'.riiiijinir. t'oi'..-: acenttirv. A | m .-•-i's ■ luvioil. in tlui (iistricl■ foivifciyinc v.-'liivs'-Vif ringers'to work, incresnntl.v:<l«y.

■Vs] n'i l7iHiloif;>^S a motor'-b«5'.5 projiriotbf > ho s; 'i oft comply '-.with.... between ■■ fifty ; and sixty 1 he .can: obL-un;.-\ : licciiso