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                              The Devourers


                                    By

                           A. Vivanti Chartres


                           G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
                           NEW YORK AND LONDON
                         The Knickerbocker Press
                                   1910



                           COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
                           A. VIVANTI CHARTRES.



                            TO MY WONDERCHILD

                                  VIVIEN

                TO READ WHEN SHE HAS WONDERCHILDREN OF HER OWN




PREFACE


There was a man, and he had a canary. He said, "What a dear little
canary! I wish it were an eagle." God said to him: "If you give your
heart to it to feed on, it will become an eagle." So the man gave his
heart to it to feed on. And it became an eagle, and plucked his eyes
out.

There was a woman, and she had a kitten. She said: "What a dear little
kitten! I wish it were a tiger." God said to her: "If you give your
life's blood to it to drink, it will become a tiger." So the woman gave
her life's blood to it to drink. And it became a tiger, and tore her to
pieces.

There was a man and a woman, and they had a child. They said: "What a
dear little child! We wish it were a genius."...




BOOK I




I


The baby opened its eyes and said: "I am hungry."

Nothing moved in the silent, shadowy room, and the baby repeated its
brief inarticulate cry. There were hurrying footsteps; light arms raised
it, and a laughing voice soothed it with senseless, sweet-sounding
words. Then its cheek was laid on a cool young breast, and all was tepid
tenderness and mild delight. Soon, on the wave of a light-swinging
breath, it drooped into sleep again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Edith Avory had hurried home across the meadow from the children's party
at the vicarage, her pendant plaits flying, her straw hat aslant, and
now she entered the dining-room of the Grey House fluttered and
breathless.

"Have they come?" she asked of Florence, who was laying the cloth for
tea.

"Yes, dear," answered the maid.

"Where are they? Where is the baby?" and, without waiting for an answer,
the child ran out of the room and helter-skeltered upstairs.

In front of the nursery she stopped. It was her own room, but through
the closed door she had heard a weak, shrill cry that plucked at her
heart. Slowly she opened the door, then paused on the threshold,
startled and disappointed.

Near the window, gazing out across the verdant Hertfordshire fields, sat
a large, square-faced woman in pink print, and on her lap, face
downward, wrapped in flannel, lay a baby. The nurse was slapping it on
the back with quick, regular pats. Edith saw the soles of two little red
feet, and at the other end a small, oblong head, covered with soft black
hair.

"Oh dear!" said Edith. "Is _that_ the baby?"

"Please shut the door, miss," said the nurse.

"I thought babies had yellow hair, with long muslin dresses and blue
bows," faltered Edith.

The square-faced nurse did not answer, but continued pat--pat--pat with
her large hand on the small round back.

Edith stepped a little nearer. "Why do you do that?" she asked.

The woman looked the little girl up and down before she answered. Then
she said, "Wind," and went on patting.

Edith wondered what that meant. Did it refer to the weather? or was it,
perhaps, a slangy servant's way of saying, "Leave me alone" or "Hold
your tongue"?

"Has the baby's mother come too?" she asked.

"Yes," said the nurse; "and when you go out, will you please shut the
door behind you?"

Edith did so.

She heard voices in her mother's