THE LAPSE Of THE BISHOP

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16635, 18 January 1922, Page 11

THE LAPSE Of THE BISHOP

OUR SERIAL.

w By GUY THORNE (Author of " When Tl wa* Dark,*" ©ted BOOK T, OHA-PTT3R V.—Continued. “It is true what Sir Benedict told me.” he thought. “ I have been too hard with myself. I have forgotten that pleasure within measure and rightly chosen, is a gift of God.” His conscience smote him as be remembered how hard he had been with, others—-his colleagues, at times. He had often grudged his curate© at Ironpool, and ether helpers, vacations that were not absolutely necessary on the score of health. He remembered with penitence how angry he had once been with the eurate-in-charge of one of his mission churches, who he thought showed an undue disposition to society in th© great. Northern City. “ Have you any fault to find with my work? ” the young man had askech “Can you point to any slackening of t.ea! on my part, any duties slurred over or left undone? ” The then rector had shaken his head and was beginning to explain that the Soldier of Christ must avoid all worldly affairs, when the incident had ended by the clergyman remarking, “1 think, sir, you should remember that our Lord Himself was a diner-out.” The Bois was full of carriages, and some of the most magnificent equipages in Europe flashed up and down the loafv ways which rudiated from the Arc de Triomphe. After some iced lemonade at a. little table under a, great chestnut tree, still revel lifig in th© novelty of his sensations and wondering at the continuance of his high spirits, the Bishop retraced his steps. At the head of the Rue Royole he turned into the Madelaine for a tew minutes, and) kneeling down in the vast, classic church prayed humbly that if it was God's will, his health might be restored, and that he might humbly accept all that it, pleased the Father of Mercies to send him. Seven o’clock found him once more at th© Croix d’Or. Monsieur Girard, the proprietor, a corpulent, boarded southerner, with eyes like black velvet, and smiling crimson lips, bade his guest a good evening. Monsieur had boon seeing the sights, was it not? The Louvre—but yes, magnificent! Monsieur Girard was himself a lover of pictures, but he had rot entered the galleries for many •vears. The Bois !—Monsieur Girard thought that the Bois was almost at its best this month though some people preferred the autumn tints. Dinner would be ready in a very few minutes. Good appetite to Monsieur. The Bishop, as a rule, neither knew nor cared what he ate, but the tiny pink radisKes, tho little pats of butter nestling among ice. the thin fillets of anchovies which looked like worms, were certainly an admirable prelude for the iced consomme the lobster claw, taken whole from the shell. and smothered with stiff mayonnaise, the leg of chicken and water-cress.

Tlio Bishop took his coffee in what had one© been the courtyard of the hotel, but was now roofed over with glass. Tho place was paved with white and pale purple tiles. In the middle was a sunken basin of water, from which a thin whip of a fountain shivered in the electric lights. Ranged round the wall were little tables, marble topped, set before plus covered seats, and at the end, opposite to the dining-room door, from which the Bishop had just emerged, were the glass windows of the bureau, within which Madame Girard could be seen dividing her attention between a piece of embroidery and a large Persian cat. In one corner two old priests were playing dominoes. Exactly opposite the Bishop was a commis voyaguer, making lip his day’s accounts in a hook interleaved with carbon paper. Every minute or two he tore out a leaf and sipped his grenadine with a grunt of satisfaction. It was all very quiet, homely- and French. Presently th© patron came in through another door, walked slowly' up to the Bishop’s table, smiled courteously, and then sat down with perfect ease and unconsciousness of manner. He was not curious, he was simply friondly. The gentleman was alone, no doubt tlic gentleman would welcome a little chat, and after a sincere compliment upon tho purity of the Bishop’ 8 French, M. Girard found himself engaged in as pleasant a conversation aa he had known for a long time. He learnt that Monsieur proposed to stay only a few days in Paris, and then to go to some watering place in seacli of health. “ France,” said the patron, “ is rich in bains do mer, and most of them offer attractions which—no disrespect to England— resorts of that country ; hardly possess.” Monsieur Girard had once spent three days, at Margate. “ The air. wonderful, I grant you, Monsieur. A tolerable orchestra—hut for th© rest, nothing, nothing at all!” Monsieur Manners explained that while he wanted th© sea, ho wanted a very quiet place. It might be- well to Ixi within reach of some larger town, , but his idea was sunlight, sea breezes , and seclusion “ And have you any predilection, M’sieur? As on© would sav, are you attracted by the south, th© east-, or the north? Brittany wa« wild and picturesque, but for his part Monsieur Girard mockod himself of Brittany. It was so far away, and many of the peasants hardly understood a word of French, which made travelling off: the beaten track rather difficult. “ 1 have really not gone in to the matter yet, bub T confess my thoughts have turned to Normandy.” Then T, Girard, can be of some assistance to you, for though 1 am of the Midi myself, I know our northern coasts very well indeed.” The worthy hotelier fetched a map, and shifting his seat to be beside his guests, they consulted it together, M Iftrard making a running comment on nil the seaside resorts from Etaples to Rayeux. “I have heard,” said the Bishop, tapping a certain spot between I>ieppe and Decamp, “ that this place Belleplage IS a. very intreesting town.” f know it well.” said M. Girard, and have spent many pleasant hours there. But it’s gay, Monsieur Manners, very chic. There is a, large casino, a. thentre, and it is very crowded.” “Jty somewhat difficult to make a choice,’’ the Bishop answered, tapping with his gold pencil on the map. * 1 But certainly I have a. fancy for that part r e coas '*' It is in such easv reach of Rouen, a city which I have only seen once, and wish to know more of ” The other leant back in his seat and puffed at his cigar for a few moments without speaking. " Puh, bicn, ’ ho began, ' ; since you cannot now think qua j© fasse mon nid —that I feather my own neat —I have had th© very place for you in the e,'e of my mind ever since wo began tj

talk. It is here **—-he put on© tobacco stained finger upon Sellei>lage—” three miles away from the town, a little place on the shore, where hardly anyone goes over. sister-in-law, Madame Girard, is patron no of th© Hotel du Sablon there. It is not large, it is not luxurious, hut it is comfortable, and the cuisine is excellent. My good sister-in-law. who is a, very devout woman, will, not take anyone into her hotel. Biit a recommendation from mo would go very far, and you, Monsieur, would spend some tranquil weeks there- And she would look afi-er you like a son.” “ It- sounds just th© thing; this is really very kind of you.” “With your permission I will writ© to Pr axed© this very night.” “ I should like it of all things. "What is the name of the village?” “ Saint© Praxede-en-Bois. My belleSceur was born there, and was given the name of the village saint. There’s a great forest of manv acres which goes almost down to tho seashore. It is called the Bois d’Amour by the natives, and tli© general public from Belleplage are only admitted to certain portions. Madam© Girard, however, can afford the privilege of an uninterrupted access to her select guests.” The Bishop took a sheet of thin paper from the blotting book lying beside him on the table, and wrote down th© information—Madame Praxede Girard, Hotel du Sablon, St© Praxede-en-Bois, Seine Inferieur. Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket, and shortly afterwards M. Girard was called away to welcome some new arrivals. V. In the middle of tire night the Bishop woke up suddenly. His mind leapt into full consciousness without any intermediate state. Fear stirred in his heart most horribly. There was a voice in the room, a. voice he didn’t know, trumpeting the words Saint© Braxede-en-Bois—Saint Praxede-en-Bois ! His arm shot out mechanically to the electric switch at the head of the bod. As the room flashed into light he sprang up into a sitting posture, tli© sweat rolling down his face.

Th© room was empty, bub tho echo of the unknown voice was still in his ear?. Yet, was it unknown? Ho mad© a tremendous mental effort, a sort of wrenching by thought, a. wrench—a forlorn grasp. Then, second by second, like drops of water from a tap, knowledge began to move about the cells and arteries of the brain. It was his own voice tlmt ho had heard. He must have been in a nightmare, and awakened himself by his own shouting. Sto Praxede-en-Bois! That was the place to which his landlord had recommended him : ho heaved a long sigh, and still trembling got out of bed. His mouth was dry and uarchod, but there was water in a caraffe, and be drank eagerly. Among the object* on the dressingtable liis eye fell upon the little silver tube containing Tulaeque. There was one tablet left, and he swallowed it. The empty tube rolled along the dress-ing-table and fell at tho back. He could not be troubled to recover it now. and he returned to bed leaving it where it had fallen. He didn’t know that the occurrence was symbolic, that this was the last tablet of the drug that he was ever to swallow. Nor was there anything to warn him that this was probably the determining night of his career. After half an hour, feeling curiously lost and low-spirited, the Bishop once more fell asleepHe was awakened as before bv the apple-faced serving woman with his bowl of cafe au lait, and the warm crescent-shaped rolls. The sun poured into the bedroom as she pulled up th© , blind, and the noises of early morning Paris floated in like a chant. From an adjacent street the cry of a rose-seller was heard, plaintive and sweet, “ Monsieurs, befiower yourselves. beflower yourselves! ” The Bishop took his coffee and roll* in bed He dozed for ten minutes, and then rose and walked across the room t*> where a small zinc bath had been prepared for him. Half way across the room d curious thing happened. Just as a bumblebee flies gaily about a room for a time, until, wishing to change its surroundings. it is brought up with a. sickening thud against the invisible glass of the window, so tho Bishop's mind found itself suddenly stopped and barred. He had been thinking that the water looked delightfully fresh and cool, that it was a pity that there was no proper bathroom, where one could really enjoy the blessings of a cold tub. if, for instance. And then it bggan, the horrible, unknown, paralysing barrier qf thought “If for instance . . ho said aloud. For the millioneth part of a second, so fleeting and elusive that it could hardly bo called experience, hut rather a mere flash from some other dimension, a. single memory cell gloved and went out. Tie stamped with bis bare foot upon the floor, stamped with a sickening sence of failure and baffled longing. “ If. for instance,” what bad he beergoing to say?” “What’s the matter with me this morning?” said the Bishop. Then, not knowing why ho did so, he went to the mirror above th© dressing-table and stared at il. Perhaps that was the first moment of realisation, for the face of the man in the pyjama suit was utterly unknown to him. Th© grey hair, disordered by sleep, the heavy brows, the keen black eyes, now alight with inquiry and a dawning horror, tho beak-like nose, and tho wide mouth awakened no echo whaterer in his brain. He saw ill© face change, he saw its pallor turn to a dead white, like the under-side of a fish, and then lie whipped away from the mirror with a cry. The whole foundations of .personality of identity, were crumbling, and in his mind also he turned as if to run -to run back to some safe place from where he had come. And behold, there whs no such place. The whole world had shrunk to the dimensions of this room. The man’s memory, of what he was, oi‘ all his past life, was utterly gone, wiped off from the tablets of liis brain, j as a spong© wipes the chalk marks from a shtte. Not n quarter of a mil© away, Al. Louis Tulaeque, who was an early riser, was seated iu his office opening his morning letters. There was a very satisfactory harvest of cheques, and tho Benefactor of the Nerve Weary, and th© Bcstower of entirely Harmless and Refreshing Sleep, smiled benevolently. End of First Book.