A KING IN BABYLON.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2740, 19 February 1910, Page 1 (Supplement)

A KING IN BABYLON.

(By Alice and Claude Askew.)

‘‘l wonder why you are so ambitious, George—so very ambitious?” “Lucy Melton raised her soft grey eyes, and fixed them on the flushed face of the tall, broad-shouldered young man who stood by her side—George liiddel, 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 desired to be something more than a squire holding rule over acres, as his father had been—the father who had died when Riddel was but a youth at Eton. George was a man of larger ambitions than his father j lie would never be ready, as the dead squire had been, to live amidst the silence of green pastures, and take his pleasure in country pursuits and pastimes. He yearned to enter the political arena; lie aspired towards greatness; his ambition was to be a leader of men.

And Lucy Melton wondered at this. She thought it was strange that George could not settle down in his beautiful house. The Priory, and live there with his widowed mother, who was so devoted to her son and only child. George had puzzled Lucy for years; yet, no one knew him as well as she

did, or had seen as deep into his heart. For they had played together as children, 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 warmer — even into love.

Yet Lucy realised that, though George cared for her deeply, and would, doubtless, before long, ask her to be his wife, love would never mean as much to him as fame —and she was sad because of this —a little downcast —for Lucy esteemed love to bo the highest gift that God has ever bestowed on a grey and dusty world. But, then, she did not know what it was to thirst for success as George thirsted, and the laurel crown did not appeal to her any more than the braying of Fame’s trum-pets-—for Lucy was a simple 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—moist, rose-scented lips—quivered with quick smiles, warm-'with comprehensive sympathy.

Her hair was abundant—rich chestnut hair —and she wore_ it parted to each side of her face and twisted in a great coil behind. She had creamy skin flushed with delicate apple-bloom coloring, -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 declare, and it was a point of honor with these good jpeople to maintain that there wasn’t another girl in Sussex who could hold a candle to Lucy in point of looks.

-Not that Lucy herself thought much about the beauty that was her dower, for she was the eldest of the Vicar’s brood, and had a delicate mother to look after, as well as a crowd of brothers 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 own. Her father leaned on her completely—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 household with much success, and was accustomed to' consult Lucy even over parish affairs. Thus, it was difficult for Lucy to give much of her time to George, but the young man haunted the Vicarage with steady persistence, always striving to secure half-an-liour’s tete-a-tete in the green garden with Lucy, so that he could talk to her of his dreams and ambitions.

And Lucy would listen with downcast 03-os to George Riddel s confidences, her hands loosely 7 clasped in her lap, and her silence soothed the 3'oung man and rested him. lie did not like women who talked a great deal themselves, he preferred to do all the talking there was to be done, and ho gave Lucy credit for a great deal more brain 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 this hot July afternoon—pouring out his plans for the future, explaining that he intended to stand for Bari lament at the next election, and take his seat at Westminster.

And Lucy had murmured tnat she "-J 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, sympathetic eyes —and George realised that the Vicarage garden, warm as it was with the scent of fruit and floweis, bathed in the glow of sunset —was a green paradise, and that Lucy was the fairest soul alive. “I intend to succeed, Lucy.” He crossed his legs one over the other as lie spoke. His young face had gained a strong, masterful look, and he looked oddly determined as he sat up in a big __ elbow-chair, set under the shade cast by - a spreading cedar tree. Lucy was kneeling on the ground, arranging some flowers in a basket. She had been cutting sweet peas from a big, flowering hedge. Ik was always Lucy •who remembered to cut the sweet peas, her little sisters were too often forgetful of such slight duties. • Lucy smiled faintly as George talked, and then she asked him, in her soft, slow voice, why he was so ambitious. It seemed so strange to her so incredibly strange—that he should want to leave his lovely okhhome, and pass hot,

stifling hours in the House, listening to dull debates. Lucy could not understand the absorbing interest of politics —the subtle charm of state-craft. v “Ambition —it’s a hard word to define.” George spoke in low, musing tones —then he gazed at Lucy, kneeling on the grass—Lucy, who looked so sweet, in her sim)ple, white cotton gown, with her head bare to the kiss of the sunset; and lie thought of the day that was coming when we would take this simple, loving girl by the hand and seat her by his side on a raised chair upon which fierce light would beat and the eyes of the world be turned. But Lucy—little guessing what dreams were being dreamed about her —glanced up at George with musing query. “You 'needn’t try to define the word ‘ambition’ to me,” she said softly. “All I want to know is why you arc ambitious.” “Because—like Brutus —the desiic was born in me, I suppose,” be ans- • wered. “I simply cannot help myself in the matter. I yearn to command my fellows —to bear rule over them—to control affairs —t-o be the man at the helm. Why, Lucy, I’d give 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 wiilbe!” 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, sho trusted, into his heart. “Lucy,” George laid a heavy hand on her 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 father —as she gazed adoringly at George, and murmured in her soft, gentle voice : “I couldn’t he prouder of you, George, than I am now—l couldn’t love 3’ou more if you were the greatest man on earth. Ob, George, my dear —don’t 3-011 understand? I’m not ambitious/’ But George only patted her hair and laughed. “I want to bo 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 absolute dominion over thousands and thousands of bis fellow-men long centuries ago, and wielded the powers of life and death. For power is as the very breath of my nostrils.” He rose to his feet, folding his arms across his breast j looking towards the East. “Yes I can imagine mj'self a ruler of men,” he continued, “an autocratic monarch. Ah, I have loosed tbe 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 1 over the fallen —enriched my kingdom with spoils—nodded to the music of the dancing girls —slept, perhaijs, to poisoned wine.” “Have I no place in these wonderful dreams?” Lucy interrupted suddi-’i-ly. She was still kneeling on tbe soft green, turf —and as she addressed her lover she clasped her hauls tigluiy together —quite uncon.cio i-fiy sho 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 to give her a curiously saintly look. She might have been some early Christian 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 Babylon, and I was a Christian slave,” Lucy murmured the words softly, reflectively. Then she looked up, and her eyes were troubled and wistful. “George,” she asked, “if you are right in thinking that you have lived "before—that we have both lived before, and that you were a king and I was a slave—what were we to each other What could we have been?” He bent 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 band and the slave would fall at his feet —to be raised to his heart.” - “Ah, but would a Christian slave suffer such love?” Lucy 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 God, even at the price of a broken heart, .perhaps.” George shrugged his shoulders. He did not like Limy- to look so pale and

troubled. She was a fanciful creature, be reflected. Then be moved closer towards the girl, and put his arms about her, to discover that she was. trembling nervously.

“Darling,” be whispeerd, “don’t be silly. lam not a‘King of Babylon any more than, you are a Christian slave, and there is nothing to prevent our marrying each other. When do you think our marriage had better take placp? What about next year? I 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. “Ob, George, it seems so wonderful that we shall be married next year.” Then she hesitated, and rather an anxious look came over her face. Some oi the pretty color died away.

“I hope they will be able to spare me from home,” 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. Ob, George” —her voice grew very sad —“I do hope that it isn’t selfish of me to bo 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 3-011 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 he a hewer of wood and drawer of water all your life. It’s simply preposterous.”

He spoke with intense |conviction, and Lucy told herself that lie must be right—oh, of course, 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 happ\ r girlish dreams about the wedding that would take place next year, as she paced the lawn leaning on George Riddel’s arm —listening to hi.s 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 liand to her heart back oil tbe 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 looked white and scared, hut 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 he near, and she told herself that lper mother was dying.

She was wrong, however, for later on, when the doctor arrived on the scene, he was able to announce that, though Mrs Melton had just had a xevy severe heart attack, tbe worst was over; and the invalid confirmed the truth of his words by struggling back to a faint and feeble consciousness. It was necessary that some one 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 the world that Lucy 7 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 had made. He had given it as his opinoin that Mrs Melton’s sudden heart attack would be followed by others, and that the poor lady would never be anything but a helpless.invalid now, though the end might bo 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 ever; chains were 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 111 c, Lucy— don’t leaA 7 e me. I should be frightened if I were by myself.” And Lucy’s brave answer was always the same: “You needn’t be afraid, mother darling. As long as you want me I shall be with you—as long as you need me.”

It was a very long night —a night which gave Lucy plenty of time for reflection ; and she made up her mind about one or two things before the dawn flashed in—the golden dawn that wakes up a grey world.

She had decided that she must tell George, for instance, that any talk of an engagement between them must be tpostponed till her mother got stronger, for their marriage was out of the question while Mrs Melton needed the nursing that only Lucy could give, and it would not be fair to George to bind him by any actual engagement.- Let him wait for Lucy if he wanted to do seas of course he would—only lie must bo 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 caressingly on her tired brow.

She thought, of George and the wonderful hour they had spent' in the gar-

den —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.” iSlic shivered. It seemed as if the words wore 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 over 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, as 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 Now Jerusalem are fashioned, only they 7 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 unako 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 color from her clieeh:, dimmed the gold of her hair.

Not that Lucy much regretted the loss of her looks, nor had she often troubled to look in a glass since the day—three years ago now—when she had written a long letter to. George Riddel in answer to an earnest appeal 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 some one else —that, indeed, he had better choose some beautiful, clever wile, and not waste his time waiting for Lucy. George, making great headway in the world, thought the advice sound, but was in no hurry to carry it out. And so the years slipped 011, and then, quite suddenly, Mrs Melton died.

George came down to Sussex for the funeral, and after the tired woman's body had boon committed to th e grave and the little party of mourners had returned to the Vicarage, Lucy and George found themselves alone together in the- quaint old-fasliioned Vicarage drawing-room. But they did not speak of love to each other—only of the dead woman, and of George's career. And Lucy, as she talked to the man who meant all the world to her. and more than the world, realised that she had lest him —that he had drifted from her—and she knew that she had been aware all the time that this would happen— for the width of all tbe world lies between a man who would be a ruler, an Empire-builder, a triumphant leader —and the woman who is a serving sister.

Georgc had an uneasy feeling once or twice, as he talked to Lucy—toe. '

first real long talk for years—that she might be expecting him to propose to her, for all that she bad set him iree long /go; and he was certain as he looked at her that it would be absolutely fatal, from a worldly point of view, to marry Lm/y. She would never make a leading political hostess —she was neither smart nor clever, only, transparently truthful, exquisitely gentle. He wanted a brilliant wife—a wife of flashing wit, of boundless tact —a woman who could lie gracefully when the occasion demanded it, and prove herself a past-mistress in the difficult task of dissimulation. And he knew where he could find the wife he needed, the woman who was as anxious to bo a queen as he was to be a king—for Judith Hart-land, the Prime Minister’s sister, had shown him plainly enough that she was ready to marry him; ancl Miss Hartland was the most brilliant unmarried girl of her day—hard, clever, fascinating enough when she iiked, and a great lady to her fingertips—a born diplomatist. Yes, ho must marry Judith-'-that is, if he wished to succeed —for success would be assurred him if he took Judith Hartland to wife—and whether lie loved her or whether she loved him was a point that did not trouble George Riddel very much, any more than it troubled Miss Hartland.

George gazed at Lucy very earnestly as he said good-bye to her —and perhaps, had she willed it, he might have thrown ambition to the winds even at that late hour. But she made no sign —just Jet him drive away, back to the life he loved, and so the social and political world were agreeably fluttered a few weeks later to learn that an engagement had taken iplace between George Riddel and 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 God to inquire into—the Christ she worshipped. / But she did one thing later which astonished all those who knew her—she asked Mrs Riddel, George’s mother, if she - would take her to the wedding. A.nd 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-fash-ioned in her ways, afraid of smart people, and not clever—olf, decidedly not clever.

“I ought to he proud of my daugh-ter-in-law, Lucy,” she whispered, “for she is very handsome, very brilliant, and will help George on in his,career.

But I shall see very litlo 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 tbe soft whisper, however, except to press Mrs LG 1ciel’s hand.

She dressed herself finely for Geo 'ge’s wedding—finely, at least, for her. bile was all in white, and Mrs Riddel gave her a big bunch of lilies of the valley, which she tucked in at her waist-belt, and she looked very sweet —a striking contrast to the smart, fashionable ladies, with their scents and their silks, tlieir clinking bracelets, and their flow-er-wreathed and feather-decked hats, who surrounded her.

Not that Luity took much notice of the guests who thronged to Geo .'go 5 wedding—she had slipped into a back seat, not wishing to sit with the mother of the bridegroom, though she had driven to the eliurcli with her. She kept on her knees in silent praj'Or till the service began.

Her eves were very moist and dewy during the marriage service, and there was something about her face that made people who looked at her once 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 that the Saint’s face had shone transfigured even as they stoned him—or so said Holy Writ. Lucy had one sharp moment of keen anguish—of almost inexpressible bitterness—and that was when George Biddel, 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 bis eyes which told Lucy plainly enough that he did not love bis wile, and had only married Judith Hartland because it was expedient that he should do so —and that he had missed the orie tiling 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 be would have to put by the trappings of power and pride, and Ins dust would mix with humble dust, and all his glory be vain—and she prayed she might be with him then. “You were 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 thenl—and outside—the cheering of the crowd. But, a.s if in response, S?e bridegroom sighed wearily—as Kings sigh—then passed on.