A KING IN BABYLON.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 9790, 5 March 1910, Page 2

A KING IN BABYLON.

J (ICDy ALICE and CLAUDE ASKEW) Authors of "The Shulaniite," Etc.

[All Rights Reserved.] ''l wonder why you are so ambitious, .. George—so very ambitious?" Lucy Melton raised her soft grey ' eves, and fixed them on the flushed face Df the tall, broad-shouldered young man ttho stood by her side—George Riddel, who had just left Oxford crowned with laurels, and whose mind was now set Upon taking up a political career. ,• .Young Riddel had decided that he deg sired to be something more than a equire holding rule over acres, as his 1 father had been—the father who had -j died when Riddel was but a youth at Eton. George was a man of larger i~,. ambitions than his father; would never be ready, as the dead squire had been, to live amidst the silence of green is, .'pastures, and take his pleasure in country pursuits and pastimes. He s. Yearned to enter the political arena; he aspired towards greatness; his amVtion was to be a leader of men. And Lucy Melton wondered at this. c She thought it was strange that George s: could not -settle down in his beautiful house, The Priory, and live there with his widowed mother, who was so de- • • voted to her son and only child. ' George had puzzled Lucy for years; f yet, no one knew him as well as she did, or had seen as deep into his heart. •? ■ for they had played together as cliil- * dren, and been devoted friends ever ' since; and. now it seemed as if the long-standing friendship between the ' daughter of the vicar of Long Harton " and the young squire of the parish was developing into something warmereven into love. " Yet Lucy realised that, though

" George cared for her deeply, and .;, would, doubtless, before long, ask her \o be his wife, love would never mean : ; is'much to him as fame—and she was ;' lad because of this—a little downcast

.—for Luoy esteemed love to be the highest gift that God has ever bestow- „■ e>d on a grey and dusty world. But, IT then, she did not know what it was . co thirst for success as George thirsted, ind the laurel crown did not appeal \o her any more than the braying of "" ' Fame's trumpets—for Lucy was a simpi© soul—just a mere loving woman. She was beautiful in her way, for

her face—a delicate oval—was full of

_.', a strange sweetness, and her lips—v moist, rose-scented lips—quivered with ]■':■ quick smiles, warm with comprehensive sympathy.

Her hair was abundant —rich chest- .* nut harr—and she wore it parted, to t,.. Dach side qf her face and twisted in a |V great coil behind. She liad a creamy ' . skin flushed with delicate apple-bloom ," colouring, and the simple cotton frock that she wore could not hide the grace ~, of her slim figure. •„. " Miss Lucy is a beauty, an' no mistake," so the village folk used to de- ... elare, and it was a point of honour with these good people to maintain e . that there wasn't another girl in Sus- ,,.. Sex who could hold a candle to Lucy ♦ '..in point of looks. Not that Lucy herself thought much »bout the beauty that was her dower, , c [or she "was the eldest of the Vicar's irotfd, and had a delicate mother to "'• look after, as well as a crowd of bro- ,. thers and sisters, who tripped at her heels- all day long; indeed, it was Lucy "" who really had the management of everything at the Vicarage, and hardly *-■. a moment in consequence to call her H Dwii. Her father leaned on her comb'<pletely—just as he had leaned on his wife before Mrs Melton's health broke -■ down; for -Stephen Melton was too scholarly a man to manage his house- «■•■ lipid with much success, and was aocus--3 tomed to consult Lucy even over parish rr affairs. Thus, it was difficult for Lucy .... fco give much of her time to George, but the young man haunted the Vicar- \. B.ge with, steady persistence, always Itriving to secure half an hour's tete-a-tete in the green, garden with Lucy, so • that he could talk to her of his dreams :; ".' *nd ambitions.

' I And Lucy would listen with downcast Jr «yes to George Riddel's confidences, -»■' her hands loosely clasped in her lap, *■" and her silence soothed the young man "' and rested him. He did not like wo-

~: men ■who talked a great deal them- .■-_: i6lves: he preferred to do all the talks':' ing that was to be done, and he gave ,«•: Lucy credit for a great deal more brain r . than she possessed, because she was >. such an excellent listener—and always ■-. agreed with all his statements, and :,. echoed his sentiments. _,. He had been confiding things to her 4fx this hot July afternoon—pouring out his plans for the future, explaining that he intended to stand for Parliament at ',' the next election, and take his seat ::; Bt Westminster. ' ! " And Luoy had murmured that she was sure he would get on in Parliament; that clever men were needed -by the country. Her eyes had been brimful of hero-worship—such gentle, ■• (jympdthetio eyes—and George realised that the Vicarage garden, warm as it "«'' was with the scent of fruit and flowers, x: bathed in the glow of sunset—was a Kreen Paradise, and that Lucy was the Fairest soul alive. " I intend to succeed, Lucy." He %\ grossed his legs one over the other as AG spoke. His young face had gained :,. % strong, masterful look, and he looked .v . oddly .determined, as he sat up in a ;v; big wicker elbow-chair, set under the ss . ihadecast by a spreading cedar tree. Lucy was kneeling on the ground, _,. arranging some flowers in a basket. She ~ had be.en cutting some sweet peas from tbigj flowering hedge. It was always ucy who remembered to out the sweet ';. peas; her little sisters were too often '* forgetful of such slight duties. , • Luoy smiled- faintly as George talked, _; *nd then she asked him, in Tier soft, "_ *•''■ (ilow voice, why he was so ambitious. ' :v - It seemed eo strange to her—so in- '" credibly strange—that ho should want •-'•■'■'ito leave hia lovely old home, and pass *•» Ira*, stifling hours in the House, listening to dull debates. Lucy could not . > anderstand the absorbing interest of Volitics—the subtle charm of State- _- praft.

:l " Ambition—it's a hard word to dev> fine." George spoke in low, musing tones—then he gazed at Lucy, kneeling *-z on the grass—Lucy, who looked so ~-,/■ sweet, in her. simple -white cotton ~, gown, with her head bare to the kiss of the sunset; and he thought of the ;, day that was coming when he would )' take this simple, loving girl by J the hand ana seat her by his J .' Bide on a raised chair upon which fierce ' light would beat and the eyes of the * world be turned. v? But Lucy—little guessing what '■•' dreams were being dreamed about her '■ : v-glanced up at George with musing "*■■ query. ir ■ "You needn't try to define the word '*' 'ambition' to me," she said softly. >"'' " All I want to know is why you are '■ tmbitious." •i* " Because—like Brutus—the desire

was: born in me, I suppose," he answered. " I simply cannot help myself in the matter. I yearn to command my fellows—to rule over them —to control affairs—to be the roan at the helm. Why, Lucy, I'd giro my life—my very life—to steer the Ship of State for a year, and to be known as England's leader—and so I will be one day—by the Lord who made me, so I will be!"

Lucy gave a fine shiver. She was half afraid of George as he spoke; there was the same look in his eyes that might have lit up Napoleon's grim face, and Lucy did not like the way his lips had tightened. And how hard he was breathing—how very hard! What a strange thing ambition was, she reflected; how it ate into a man's soul—though not, she trusted, into his heart.

"Lucy," George laid a heavy hand on lier shoulder. " Why do you look so grave? When we are married I want you to be proud of me—ambitious, too." She flushed and glanced up. This was the first time George had spoken of marriage to Lucy, for all that they had been apparently devoted to each other for years, but Lucy had never doubted that her lover would tell her" of his love in time, and that the bells would ring for them—only lately she had been wondering rather uneasily how they would manage without her at home. But she forgot the claims of her own people for a moment—her delicate mother, her dreamy, bookworm fatkej:—as she gazed adoringly at George and murmured in her soft, gentle voice: "I couldn't be prouder of you, George, than I am now—l couldn't love you more if you .were the greatest man on earth. Oh, George, my dear—don't you understand? I'm not ambitious."

But George only patted her hair and laughed. "I want to be successful," he said. "Do you know, Lucy, I sometimes tell myself that I must be the reincarnation of a great king—a king who held dominion over thousands and thousands of his fellow-men long centuries ago, and wielded the powers of life and death. For power is as the very breath of my nostrils." Ho rose to his feet, folding his arms across his breast, looking towards the East. . "Yes, I can imagine myself a ruler of men," ho continued, " an autocratic monarch. Ah, I have loosed the dogs of war in my time and chained them again—razed cities to the dust and built them up afresh—listened to the cry of battle—driven my chariot-wheels over the fallen—enriched my kingdom with spoils—nodded to the music of the dancing girls—slept, perhaps, to poisoned wine." " Have I no place in these wonderful dreams?" Lucy interrupted suddenly. She was still kneeling on the soft green " turf—and as she addressed her lover she clasped her hands tightly together—quite unconsciously she had adopted the attitude of prayer. The flickering rays of the sunset cast a halo round her head, and the long straight folds of her white gown helped t> give her a curiously saintly look. She might have been some early Christjon martyr at her prayers, and George Riddel felt as much. " I think —when we lived before," he answered readily, " that you were a meek and lovely Christian maid. Then he quoted slowly—sonorously: " ' When I was a king in Babylon and you were a Christian slave.' " " When you were a king in Babyloi., and I was a Christian slave," Imcr murmured the words softly, reflectively. Then she looked up and her were troubled and wistful.

"George," she asked, "if you arc right in thinking that you have livetj. before-—that we have both lived before, and that you were a king and I a slave—what were we to each other? What could we have been?" Ho benb over her. "We loved well enough—l know that much."

"How could a king love a slave?" she smiled, rather piteously. " Very easily, my dear," George laughed—laughed at her troubled face —" and a king's wooing would be swift. He would wave his hand and the slave would fall at his feet—to be raised, to his heart."

" Ah, but would a Christian slave suffer such love—" Lticy asked quietly, " Oh, my dear " she rose from the ground and leant against her lover, adding slowly: "If you were really a great king in other days—a King of .Babylon—l think your power and your glory made an eternal barrier between the king and the slave--the Christian slave who had to be true to her Gcd, even at the price of a broken heart, perhaps." George shrugged his shoulders. He did not like Lucy to look so pale and troubled. She was a fanciful creature, he reflected. Then he moved closer towards the girl, and put his arms about her, to discover that she was trembling nervously. "Darling," he whispered, "don't be silly. I. am not a King of Babylon any more than you are a Christian slave, and there is nothing to prevent cur marrying each other. When do you think our marriage had better take place? What about next year? T shall be in Parliament by next year, I trust, and I shall certainly want a wife—a wife who will have her salon and be the greatest possible help to me —my queen—my right hand." Lucy flushed, a warm, lovely flush. " Do you really want to marry me next year?" she murmured. "Oh, George, it seems so wonderful that we shall bo married next year." Then sho hesitated, and rather an anxious look camo over her face. Some of the pretty colour died away. "I hope they will be able to spare me from homt,/' she murmured, "and that they won't mind my getting married so soon. You see, Dora is only just sixteen, and not able to take my place very well, and there is a frightful lot to do at home now that mother is so much of an invalid and gets so done up if she overtires herself. Oh, George"—her voice grew very sad " I do hope that it isn't selfish of me to be thinking of marrying and leaving my people when they all seem to need me so much."

My dearest Lucy " —George's grasp tightened round the girl's slim figure and he strained her closely to him—"don't get such*absurd ideas into your head. Of course you will be missed at home at first. That's only natural, considering all you do, but it's absolutely ridiculous to imagine that your family cannot spare you; that you are to be a hewer of wood and drawer of water all your life. It's simply preposterous."

Ho spoke with intense conviction, and Lucy told herself that he must be right—and that there was no reason why she should not marry and be happy like other girls. She began to dream happy girlish dreams about the wedding that would take place next year, as she paced the lawn leaning on GeoTge Riddel's arm—listening to his tender speeches. But the golden hour came to an abrupt end. A girl came flying from the house— Dora Melton, calling wildly, half incoherently, for Lucy; shrieking out that something was wrong with their mother ; that she had suddenly pressed her hand to her heart and fallen back on the sofa, and Lucy must come in at once.

Lucy needed no second bidding. .She slid her hand from George Riddel's arm and followed her panting sister to the Vicarage. Both girls locked white and scared, but not as pale as their mother, for Mrs Melton lay back on her

sofa, her face drawn and livid, her lips clenched. For an agonised second Lucy fancied that the end must be near, and she + old herself that her mother was dying.

She was wrong for later on, when the doctor arrived on the scene, he was able to announce that, though Mrs Melton had just had a very severe heart attack, the worst was over, and the invalid confirmed the truth of his wordfl by struggling back to a faint and feeble consciousness.

It was necessary that someone should sit up with Mrs Melton that night, for she would need careful nursing and attendance —not that a trained nurse could be thought of. because of the expense, but it seemed the most natural thing in tho world that Lucy should elect to watch by her mother's bedside till the dawn broke, for it was always Lucy to whom her family turned in any emergency.

So Lucy kept sad vigil that night, turning over in her mind certain statements that the doctor iiad made. Ho had given it as his opinion that Mrs Melton's sudden heart attack would be followed by othere, and that the poor lady would never be anything but a helpless invalid now, although the end might be long in coming and the sufferer live for years. And this meant that Lucy could not be spared from home, but would be more needed than over; chains wore being forged for her, and the girl realised this as she gazed at her pale, broken mother, whose cold, delicate fingers clenched themselves so tightly around her hand, and who kept on murmuring at long intervals :

" Don't leave me, Lucy—don't leave me. I should be frightened if I wero by myself." And Lucy's brave answer was always the same: "You needn't bo afraid, mother darling. As long as you want me I shall be with you—as long as you need me."

V was a very long night—a night whic'-> gave Lucy plenty of timo for reflection, and she made up her mind about one or two things before the dawn that wakes up a grey world.

She had decided that sho must toll George, for instance, that any talk of an engagement between them must be postponed till her mother got stronger, for their marriage was out of the- question while Mrs Melton needed the nursing that oniy Lucy could give, and it would not be fair to George to bind him by any act tal engagement Let him wait for Lucy if he wanted to do so—as of course he would—only he must he virtually free. So the girl told herself. Then, when the dawn had broken, and her mother had fallen asleep at last—she crossed to the open window and looked out upon the green stillness of the countryside, and a little whispering breeze ruffled her hair and played caressing'y on her tired brow. She thought of George and the wonderful hour they had spent in the garden—his murmured words of love Quite suddenly the lines he had quoted to her came into Lucy's head, and she repeated them softly to herself. " When I was a King in Babylon and you were a Christian slave."

She shivered. It seemed as if the words were ill-omened, and put her and her lover too far apart—separated them from each other. "A Christian slave!" She muttered the words in low, troubled tones, and glanced ovor her shoulder at her mother, who lay sleeping soundly on her bed—the mother to whom it was her bounden duty to devote her young life—at least, according to Lucy's views—and then, r<« she thought of George, she knew that her hands and feet had been put into fetters, but she loved her shackles—they were of the gold from which the walls of the New Jerusalem are fashioned, only thej made a slave of her—a slave.

It took Mrs Melton five years to die—she did her dying very slowly. It seemed that, after having been in a hurry all her life, the poor soul lacked strength to hasten matters now, as if she were too tired to make any violent efforts, but could only lie still and fade away quietly. For five years Lucy watched and nursed, her mother, and was patience and gentleness itself, for all that constant attendance in a sick room had robbed her of the beauty she had once possessed, faded the colour from her cheeks, dimmed the gold of her hair.

Nob that Lucy much regretted the loss of her looks, nor had she often troubled to look in a class since tiie day—three years ago now—when she had written a long letter to George Hiddel in answer to an earnest ap* peal from the rising young politician that she should leave her home and her father's house and marry him—a letter in which Lucy told the man she loved that she could never desert her mother, and went on to add—and how was George to guess how her heart ached as she penned the next few words—that she should never blame him if he married someone else—that, indeeu, he had better choose some beautiful, clever wife, and not waste his time waiting for Lucy. George, malting great headway in the world, thought the advice sound but was in no hurry to carry it out. And so the years slipped on, and then, quite suddenly, Mrs Meltm died. George came down to Sussex for the funeral, and after the tired woman's body had been committed to the grave and the little party of mourners had returned to the Vicarage, Lucy and George found themselves alone tof ether in the quaint, old-fashioned 'icarage drawing-room. But they did not speak of love to each other—only of tho dead woman, and of George's career. And Lucy, as she talked to tho man who meant all the world to her, and more than the world, realised that sho had lost him —that he had drifted from her—and she knew that &he had been aware all tho time that this would happen—for the width of all the world lies between a man who would be a ruler, an Empire-builder, a triumphant leader—and the woman who is a serving sister. George had an uneasy feeling once or twice, as he talked to Lucy—their first real long talk for years—that sho might bo expecting h''m to propose to her, for all that sh© had set him free long ago; and ho was certain as he looked at her that it would bo absolutely fatal, from a worldly point of view, to marry Lucy. She would never make a leading political was neither smart nor clever, only transparently truthful, exquisitely gentle. He wanted a brilliant wife—a Avife of flashing wit, of boundless tact—a woman who could lie gracefully when the occasion demanded it, and prove herself a past-mistress in tho difficult task of dissimulation. And ho knew where he could find the wife he needed, the woman who was as anxious to be a queen as ho was to be a king—for Judith Hartland, the Prime Minister'B sister, had shown him plainly enough that she was roadv to marry him ; and Miss Hartland was the most brilliant unmarried girl of her day—hard, clever, fascinating enough when she liked, and a great lady to her finger-tips—a born diplomatist. Yes, he must marry Judith—that is, nho wished to succeed—for success would be assured him if he took Judith Hartland to wife—and whether he loved her or whether she loved him was a point that did riot trouble George Kiddel very much, any moro than it troubled Miss Hartland.

George gazed at Lucy very earnestly as he said good-bye to her—and porhaps, had she willed it, ho might have thrown ambition to the winds even at that late hour. But she made no sign —just let him drive away back to the .life he loved, and so the social and political world wero agreeably fluttered a few weeks later to learn that an engagement had taken place between Georjje- Riddel arid Judith Hartland.

Lucy read the announcement of George's engagement in the "Morning Post." Her lips quivered, but that was all. If she had any tears to shed she shed them at night, and if her heart broke it was only a matter for her Gcd to inquire into—the Oliriat she worshipped. But she did one thing later which astonished all those who knew her — she asked Mrs Riddel, GeoTgo's mother, if she would take her to the wedding. And Mrs Riddel agreed at once, and pressed Lucy's hand fondly—tenderly. For Mrs Riddel was a woman after Lucy's pattern—loving; and old-fashion-ed in her ways, afraid of smart people, and not clever—oh, decidedly not clever.

"I ought to be proud of my daufrh-ter-in-law, Lucy," she whispered. '' for she is very handsome, very brilliant, .and will help George on in his career. But I shall seo very little of my son after his marriage, I expect—London will claim him utterly. Oh, I wish you had been the bride, dear, you know." Lucy took no notice of the soft whisper, however, except to press Mrs Riddel 'is hand.

She dressed herself finely for George's wedding—finely, a»t least, for her She was all in white, and Mrs Riddel gave her a bin; bunch of lilies of the valley, which she tucked in her waist-belt, and she looked very sweet—a striking contrast to the smart, fashionable" ladies, with their scents and their folks, their clinking bracelets and their flower-wreathed nnd feather-deck-ed hats, who surrounded her. Not that Lucy took much notice ofthe guests who thronged to George's wedding—she had slipped into a back seat, not wishing to sit with the mother of the bridegroom, though she had driven to church with her. She kept on her knees in silent prayer till the service began. Her eyes were very moist and dewy during the marriage service, and there was something about her face that made people who looked at her ouco want to look at her again. And a rustling old dowager who sat in a pew not far from Lucy, and gazed hard at the girl, began to think of St Stephen, and could not think why, till she remembered th&t the Saint's face had shone transfigured even as tney stoned him —or so said Holy Writ. Lucy had one sharp moment of keen anguish—of alhiost inexpressible bitterness—and that was when George Riddel, walking slowly down the crowded church, his handsome bride upon his arm—smiling and bowing, pleased and confident, caught sight of her and halted dead. And a look came into his eyes which told Lucy plainly enough that he did not love his wife, and had only married Judith Hartland because it was expedient that he should do so—and that ho had missed the one thing needful in married life and was profaning a sacrament. She averted her head slightly, sick at heart for George. He was the man of the hour, and would rise to giddy heights, but Lucy thought of the day when he would nave to put up the trappings of power and pride, and his dust would mix with humble dust, and all his glory be_ vain ; and ehe prayed she might be with him then. " You wore a King in Babylon and I was a Christian Slave," she murmured the words, low, half under her breath, and the thunder of the organ drowned them, and outside the cheering of the crowd. But, as if in response the bridegroom sighed wearily—as Kings sigh—then passed on.