ALL MEN ARE LIARS.

Evening Star, Issue 9915, 29 January 1896, Page 1

ALL MEN ARE LIARS.

BY JOSEPH HOCKING (Author ot 'The Story of Andrew Fairfax, 1 ' Ishmael Pengelly : An Outcast,' and «The Monk of Mar Saba').

SYNOPSIS Part I.

Chapter I. Luke Edgcumbe, of Edgcumbe Hall, unburdens his mind on education and discusses family history with Asher Pioberts, his steward.

Chapter ll.—Uncle and nephew have a meeting with lloberts, who is also the family solicitor, and discuss plans for that nephew's (Stephen) future. Stephen Edgcumbe early figures as a hero.

Chapter lll.—Stephen Edgcumbe and Daniel Roberts become fast friends, and exchange confidences. They map out their futures, and Edgcumbe betakes himself to the Tempest mansion, where he meets his " fate."

Chapter IV.—Stephen has a good time at the Tempests, and falls over head and ears in love with Isabella Tempest. Chapter V.—Stephen and his uncle pray in the church of the Tempests, and the cynic gives his views on religion. Chapter Vl.—-Ilalph Hussey employs the village bully to castigate Stephen Edgcumbe, but the plot only partially succeeds. Chapter Vll.—Uncle Luke gives his nephew a cynic's views of the learned professions. Chapter Vlll.—Stephen is introduced to his tutor and coach at Owens College, Manchester. Chapter IX.—The cynic discusses the marriage question. Part 11. Stephen rapidly becomes disillusionised, and is parted from His wife owing to his uncle's failure and his own ideal of commercial morality. Stephen goes " a-sluinmiiig. lie also attends a number of religious services at the Kast Eud." The Colouel takes an intensely worldly view of the situation, and proposes a reconciliation between husband ami wife "on terms," which are indignantly refused by the former. A terrible ordeul, and Stephen's descent to fearful depths of degradation. The eliicajy of prayer. Stephen resolves to bury his past and lie a man once more. A frenzied appeal, and what conies of it. The debt requited. PART lII.—HOPE. CHAPTER VIII. THE DEFINING FIIiE. Darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. —' Paradise Lost.' When Stephen arrived at 17 Bilford row, he was at once ushered into the room where the womau Baker lay. The place was lit by a small paraffin lamp, which smelt badly, and, in addition to the unwholesome atmosphere of the room, made it almost impossible to breathe at the first entrance. On a bed in the corner lay the woman whom Stephen had not seen for long years, and by her side sat Hope Hillyer. "I've come, you see," said Stephen, on entering. "Yes; I told her you would come. Look," she said, turning to the woman, "Mr Edgcumbe is here." The poor thing gave a moan, and then started coughing. It was a consumptive cough ; and from the way she panted and gasped when the fit was over, Stephen judged that she was near death. She looked up into his face beseechingly, and Stephen saw the havoc which sin and dissipation of all sorts had made upon her face. " You know all about it," she gasped ; "do you forgive me? I—l was a bad un—then ; I've been worse since. It was a dirty trick—and it just makes me wild—forgive me, will you ?" " Yes ; I forgive you," replied Stephen. " You mean it really ? I didn't like to do it—but it meant a good deal o' money, and after all I was too far gone to mind so much —only the doctor and this,young lady says as 'ow I can't live, and I'd like to die square if I can. I don't mind Jack, he never cared a for me; but you never did me no harm. The chap that was with you that night put me up to it. Said you was a chapel-going hypocrite, and all that, so I said I would ; but now I can't sleep for it, and can't die for it."

"Don't trouble," said Stephen; "the past is past, and I—l'm not the one that ought to be hard." " Thank you, thank you—you can't be a bad bloke. Do you think God is anything like you ?" Stephen did not speak. " I hope He is," gasped the woman, after another fit of coughing. "He might give me another chance then, for, honor bright, I don't think I've had a chance to be good here. I was taught to go on the loose when I was a little un, and it's jolly hard to git off a track like that."

"I believe God will give you another chance," said Stephen. "I'm sure He'il do the best for you." " Why do you think that ?" " Jesus Christ tells me so."

"Ah, that's what this young lady says. I am glad ; I—l—think I'd like to sleep a bit. You're sure you forgive me. I was mean ; but yon do, you're sure ?"

"Yes, I'm sure." The woman sighed contentedly, and closed her eyes. Ho turned to Hope. " Thank you for writing mc," he s dd. "I am glad if I have been able to give the pool thing any peace." Hope lead the way to the passage. "Wo can talk better here," she said; "and I don't want to disturb her."

"Where did you find her?" asked Stephen. " Down by Chelsea Barracks, at midnight, last Wednesday. The matron and I were there together. Sac was ill then, and we were full at the Home ; but she paid for this room, so we brought her here. I've been here ever since. It's been terrible, but the doctor says most likely she'll die at midnight. She told me the story about—you, yesterday. That Polden must have been a most—— But there, he was employed by others."

" And they are dead ; let them rest," said Stephen, quietly. Hope looked up into his face ; and then, as they both heard a moan in the room, she went by the bedside for a minute, and then came back again. " It's terribly sad, isn't it ?" she said. " God hasn't finished with her yet," said Stephen. " No," she said; " life would be a mockery if He had." "Hope," said Stephen, "I would like to have a talk with you some time. Not now —I couldn't say what I want to say here—but some time when you have a free houralone. May I?" She hesitated a second; then she said slowly : " Yes ; that is, as soon as I can." " And you will let me know when ? Or Stay next Sunday night—after all the churches are closed? I'll come to the Home."

"I may be engaged then." " But if you are not engaged ; and you can drop me a line if you are, telling me when you will be at liberty. I will meet you at church if you like." " Yes; come on Sunday night, if Ido not write—to the Home. You would not care to go to the same place of worship that I go. It is a humble little place, where unlearned preachers come and talk to us. Do you go to any church ? And do you believe in them now ?'"

"Yes; I go sometimes. There is much that's wrong, very, very wrong in the churches. There's bigotry, narrowness, caste, and hollow formalism ; but many of the people are really trying to do good, and after all they are the greatest force for good. A people without a religion is hopeless." " Yes, you are ri«ht; but I must go in now. She needs me, and the doctor will soon bo here. Good-night." , " Good-night, Hope. Don't think too dropped her hand suddenly, and hurried down the street.

During the next few days Stephen was strangely agitated, especially as Sunday

drew near. On the Saturday night, I remember, he accompanied me to Naomi's home, and once during the evening he seemed almost entirely to lose control of himself. Mrs Reviere was one of those dear, motherly old souls who are always talking; and when Naomi and I were taking part in one of those foolish conversations in which lovers of all ages indulge, Mrs Reviere appealed to Stephen whether we ought not to be ashamed of ourselves.

" Especially dignified Dr Roberts, with whom I can hardly feel familiar enough tc call Daniel," said the only lady ; " ought he not to know better ? But there, I expect you'll be the 6ame when you've got the chance. I've been looking out for a young lady for you, and I've got my eye on two or three that I think will suit. I used to think that Hope Hillyer might clo ; but I suppose, when she leaves that awful work she's doing, she'll marry my nephew, although I must say Walter has been very quiet about it lately. Anyone might think nothing was to come of it, after all, although 1 mu3t eay Hope seemed very friendly with Walter, and Walter is no doubt very fond of her, and seemed quite confident when we were down in Devonshire that the matter would be settled by last Christmas." The old lady was continuing in the same strain, when Stephen got up and rushed out of the room.

"It's most extraordinary behaviour," said Mrs Reviere, " but I think he mu3t be ill. Go after him, doctor, and give him Eome ml volatile or something. Here, take my smelling salts ; they are spleudid for a headache."

Stephen came back immediately, and apologised for his rudeness ; he seemed outwardly calm, yet I knew lie was suffering. The next day he went for a long walk in the country, but came back in time to keep his appointment with Hope ; and when halfpast seven came ho started ior Chelsea, his face pale to the lips. When he arrived at the Home, and knocked at the door, a lady about fifty came and spoke to him. Yes ; Sister Hope was in her sitting room, and, she believed, expected him, was the lady's reply to his inquiry. A minute later Stephen and Hope were alone together. For a few minutes they talked of the woman Baker, who had died on the night of Stephen's visit; for Stephen found it hard to speak of that which was nearest to his heart, and on which hung such issues. "And your health?" she said to him after a while; "you do not suffer from—what you suffered down at Ilfracombe?" "No," replied Stephen; "I am quite strong cow, and I can work with ease. You will bo glad to hear that I am taken on the stuff of a fairly influential daily paper. My novel, too, the one I called ' Visions,' has just appeared in a popular edition, and is, lam told, selling rapidly. lam quite a prosperous mau, you see." " I am very glad," she replied ; " and you will continue to live Dr Roberts ?" "I think not. Dan is to be married next month, and I do not feel like being there. Somehow it does not seem right. Not that Dan would object—you see, we have been friends so many years, and he remained true to me—through all that dark time; but there's Miss Reviere, I am afraid it would not be pleasant for her." " She is a true girl," replied Hope, " and I am sure she would consent to whatever Dr Roberts thought best." "Yes, she might; only " He hesitated a second, not knowing how to proceed, then he burst out suddenly; "Are you engaged to young Gray ?"

"No." " But he asked you to be his wife ?" " Yes."

"You do not wish—that is, you do not care, that is—well enough to be his wife ?" She did not reply, and Stephen with trembling voice went on speaking. " Hope, may I tell you something ?"

"Yes, if you will." " You —you know j'ou saved me. Through you I was dragged out of—hell. I should have died but for you—a suicide." In his eagerness he drew his chair nearer to hers, but she did not speak. " If I have become—a man again, it has been, humanly speaking, through you. I had given up all hope, all belief in virtue, in truth, in goodness. You made me believe again ; you made me hope for myself—you know, don't you ?" Still she was silent, but Stephen saw that her face had become very pale. " Well, because of these things, nay, I do not know ; but, Hope—l—l love you with all my life. You are listening ?" " Yes." She spoke very low, but Stephen heard her answer.

" I know lam daring. I know that I ought never to expect one like you to care for such an one as I have been. Hop?, my darling, forgive me, but the hope you inspired within me has led me to dream that even you might care for mc. Do you ?" "Yes."

"But I have hoped you micht love mc—love me as a woman should love her husband ? I know that I am—that is, I—l dare not think of my past. I loathe it, shudder at it, even although it is past. But God has forgiven me, and I dared to think, even although I was a thousand times unworthy, that you might love me so. Do you ?" "Yes."

She spoke calmly, almost coldly; but Stephen started up iu great joy, and seized her hand.

" Then, Hope," he cried, " my sky will be bright after all. Darliug, you have made the world heaven. With you I can—that is —you will be my wife ? " She let her hand lie iu his, but she said steadily : " No ; I cannot be your wife."

"But why? You—you said you loved me; you arc not deceiving me? You do love me, do you not ?" " Yes; I love you." "Then tell me why- Oh, do not mock me!"

She started to her feet, and her eyes shone with passion. " No ; I do not mock you," she cried. " Then why do you say you cannot be my wife?"

She snatched her hand from his, and moved a step from him. "Because—because " She hesitated a second, then she went on : " Look, Stephen Edgcumbe, suppose you had been reared amidst squalor, and drunkenness, and vice. Suppose you, in spite of it, had kept pure. Suppose you had resisted cruel temptation, and had kept yourself unsullied. And suppose that I, Hope Hillyer, had been tenderly reared, and yet had fallen ; had given myself over to evil, had allowed myself to become vile, corrupt, the willing companion of "evil men for six years. Suppose that I had been reclaimed, would you, remembering my past, marry me ?" She spoke passionately amidst her sobs ; spoke as though her words came between spasms of pain. " Tell me, Stephen Edgcumbf, would you —would you marry me ?" The question staggered him ; he did not know how to answer it, and he was silent. " You do not answer. Well, now, let me tell you something. You remember the time—that night when I, a poor, shivering little thing, was cursed by a drunken woman, who bade me go and sin that I might get her money. You know, too, that through your kindness I was sent to live with a pure, good woman. As I told you before, from that time you were my hero, my ideal, a sort of god whom I worshipped in secret. I thought no one like you. I remembered your words, telling me to be true to the name you gave me, and I treasured everything you said and did jn

my heart. But I always regarded you as up so far away from me, so good, so grand. Well, after years I left that Home and went to Kensington, and—and yon have heard what happened there. Then I made a resolve to find you. I do not know why I had not tried to do this before, except that I regarded you as so much above me, bo far away from me. You seemed to exist in my thoughts rather than as an actual being. Well, I went to Mrs Blewitt, and she told me that you were a married man when you came there to live; that your wife had obtained a divorce from you. She told ine also that she believed, as Dr Roberts believed, that you had gone away to live a bad, dissolute life."

She stopped a second, and dashed the tears from her eyes; then she went on again: " You cannot think what this meant to me. It shattered my idol; it made me feel as though something beautiful had gone out of my life. Then I remembered what you did for me, what you—you might have saved me from, and I made up my mind to give my life in helping poor fallen girls, who are often more sinned against than sinning, and I resolved, too, to try and find out where you were. " You know with what result. I followed you with a sort of dog-like faithfulness ; I seemed to feel that your salvation belonged to me. I owed it to you ; I loved you—l think something like a dog loves his master. I called you ' Master' to myself, and determined never to give up trying to save you. will not talk about that awful night when you tried to end everything, or of the days that followed; but when your friend told me, when I saw you had started on a better life, a strange joy came into my heart. I think I loved you then, but I did not know it. I found it out down at Ilfracombe, and then—the man who had been paying me attention for months became as nothing to me. Although he would not take No for an answer, I told him I could never be anything to him. How could I ?—I loved you ! Then that fact that you loved me was revealed to me, and I felt sure this night was coming. I knew that some time, if you lived, you would ask me what you have asked me. Then cime that—accident. I came to you then; I nursed you till you were out of danger. I could not help that; but when it was over I could stay no longer. I loved you, and yet I loathed you. I could not think of those years when you—you were down yonder, without shuddering." She stopped suddenly, and, laying her head on the table, sobbed convulsively. Presently she went on again -. " I love you now ; every part of my lifo cries out for you. I would so williDgly, if need be, lie down and die for you ; but when I remember the—the life you lived, and then to be—all that a wife should be to you—no !no ! I cannot—l should go nad !" Stephen stood before her like one stunned; he could not answer her ; his heart became as heavy as lead, and it seemed as cold a3 ice.

"Would you—you, Stephen Edgcumbe, marry me if the cases were reversed ? Supposing that I had been as you have been, would you, knowing it, marry me?" He hesitated again before replying. " It's a terrible question, Hope ; but—but as ftod lives, if you repented as I do, if you loathed the past as I do, if you were cursed as I was, and it was— you, all the time you —jes, I would marry you; I would, and would find heaven in doing it. You see, I love you !" She looked at him, her grey eyes blazing with a strange light; she seemed trying to make some great resolve, then she said with a shudder:

"I love you, I love you—butiio—lean not! I cannot!"

" Think again, Hope—cannot ? Oh, try and remember, try again. Daniel has told you how my uncle and my tutor—ay, how everything and everybody dinned this creed of the time in my ears. He has told you, too, how I, as a boy, madly worshipped a beautiful idol. You know the whole history of it—know how I fought, struggled ; know how everything conspired to make me believe the world to be a hell. People, churches, books, societies, all seemed to say the world is corrupt, there is no gw>d, everything is rotten at the core. Oh, remember, Hopr, my faith was gone, hope was gone; the woman to whom I had given everything proved to be a creature without a heart, without love. What had I to live for ? I despaired of everything, while every bit of impurity in the world seemed to lure me to sell my soul for sensual pleasure. Perhaps it is wrong for me to try and find excuses for myself. I know 1 ought not to have done what I did ; I kuow it ! You cannot think how I loathe that life, how I Aiuddcr at its memory ! And still it clings to me. I have repented, God knows that; I have entcrel a new life, I know I have ; but the remembrance curses me, and whips me like the sting of scorpions. But, Hope—God has forgiven mo, cannot you ? Will you let my life b2 lonely, and desolate— forsaken ? Is not your love for me great enough to burn up that terrible past'; I—l am clean now, Hope; can you not love me for what I am —and try and forget what I was?" She stood like a statue, so still was she, and she spoke like one in a dream. "I love you, Stephen—l love you ; but I cannot—cannot bs a wife to you. I would if I could ; but I cannot, I cannot !" " That is your final answer V

"It is. Yes—oh, you tee, I knew those women—and—don't. You will kill me !"

"" Very well; I will go, then. 1 ' He staggered to the dcor, then he turned around, his face rigid a3 if with pain. "God bless you, Hope!" he said, hoarsely; " you have saved me, after all. Perhaps, perhaps "

He did not finish the seutence, but walked into the hall, and fumbled in the dim light to find his hat and overcoat.

Hope stood alone in the room as he had left her, and her heart was torn with pain. When he left, brightness went, joy went. Like lightning her mind swept over the past, and in a second she seemed to live ic all over again. What should she have been but for bim ? Ay, and if she had fallen and repented as he had repented, had she been purified as he had been purified, would she not have been worthy to be the wife of a pure man ? Was not Mary Magdalene worthy? And if she were worthy, might not he be ? Besides, who was wholly pure in thought, in heart 1 Did she love him truly—really ? Did she love the God who had saved him ?

Then it seemed as thouc;h a greater love entered her life—a love more pure, more unselfish. A great refining fire began to burn in her heart, a fire from heaven ! She heard him stagger to the door with a heavy tread, and she knew his heart was breaking. " Stephen ! ; '

He came back and saw her standing with love-lit eyes. He knew that the gulf was bridged. ' He went towards her. He only spoke one word, but in it there was unspeakable joy—in it was heaven. The past—blighted, corrupt—was gene ; before him was light. " Hope !" he cried ; and it meant everything to him. THE END.