Devil's Due: Complete Series Books 1-4

Eva Charles
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/devils-due-complete-series-books-1-4-eva-charles/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Beautifully Wicked: The Complete Series: Voclain

Academy Books 1 - 4 Jordan Grant

https://ebookmass.com/product/beautifully-wicked-the-complete-
series-voclain-academy-books-1-4-jordan-grant/

Demon Hunter: The Complete Series Books 4-6 Michael

Dalton

https://ebookmass.com/product/demon-hunter-the-complete-series-
books-4-6-michael-dalton/

Genesis Academy Boxset: The Complete Series, Books 1-4

(Sacred Stones Universe Academy Series Book 3) Barbara
Hartzler

https://ebookmass.com/product/genesis-academy-boxset-the-
complete-series-books-1-4-sacred-stones-universe-academy-series-
book-3-barbara-hartzler/

Quarantine Omega: Complete Series Books 1-5 Lizzy

Bequin

https://ebookmass.com/product/quarantine-omega-complete-series-
books-1-5-lizzy-bequin/
Steele Ranch – Complete Series: Books 1 – 5 Vanessa
Vale

https://ebookmass.com/product/steele-ranch-complete-series-
books-1-5-vanessa-vale/

Twisted Intentions Series: Books 1-4 Savannah Rylan

https://ebookmass.com/product/twisted-intentions-series-
books-1-4-savannah-rylan/

Scandalous Affairs Series Box Set: Books 1-4 Christi

Caldwell

https://ebookmass.com/product/scandalous-affairs-series-box-set-
books-1-4-christi-caldwell/

Claimed by Monsters: The Complete Series: Books 1-3

Moss

https://ebookmass.com/product/claimed-by-monsters-the-complete-
series-books-1-3-moss/

New York Ruthless: The COMPLETE SERIES: Books 1 -5

Kincaid

https://ebookmass.com/product/new-york-ruthless-the-complete-
series-books-1-5-kincaid/
THE DEVIL’S DUE
THE COMPLETE COLLECTION
EVA CHARLES
QUARRY ROAD PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2022 by Eva Charles

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without express written permission from the author or publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.
The books in this collection are works of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All
other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places,
organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Trademark names appear throughout this book. In lieu of a trademark symbol with each occurrence of a trademark name, names are
used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
Cover by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Dawn Alexander, Evident Ink, Content Editor
Nancy Smay, Evident Ink, Copy and Line Editor
Faith Williams, The Atwater Group
Virginia Tesi Carey, Proofreader

For more information, contact eva@evacharles.com

Created with Vellum

He was her dark fairy tale and she was his twisted fantasy and together they made magic.
— F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
 CONTENTS

Depraved
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33

Delivered
Prologue
1. Julian
2. Julian
3. Julian
4. Julian
5. Julian
6. Gabrielle
7. Gabrielle
8. Julian
9. Julian
 10. Gabrielle
11. Julian
12. Julian
13. Gabrielle
14. Gabrielle
15. Gabrielle
16. Julian
17. Julian
18. Gabrielle
19. Gabrielle
20. Gabrielle
21. Gabrielle
22. Julian
23. Gabrielle
24. Gabrielle
25. Gabrielle
26. Julian
27. Gabrielle
28. Julian
29. Gabrielle
30. Julian
31. Julian
32. Julian
33. Gabrielle
34. Julian
35. Julian
36. Julian
37. Julian
EPILOGUE: PART 1
EPILOGUE: PART II

Bound
1. Smith
2. Kate
3. Kate
4. Kate
5. Kate
6. Kate
7. Smith
8. Kate
9. Smith
10. Kate
11. Kate
12. Kate
13. Kate
14. Smith
15. Kate
16. Smith
17. Kate
18. Kate
19. Kate
20. Smith
 21. Kate
22. Smith
23. Kate
24. Smith
25. Smith
26. Kate
27. Kate
28. Kate
29. Smith
30. Kate
31. Kate
32. Kate
33. Smith
34. Kate
35. Kate
36. Smith
37. Kate
38. Smith
39. Kate
40. Kate
41. Kate
42. Smith
43. Smith
44. Kate
45. Smith
46. Smith
47. Kate
48. Smith
49. Kate
50. Kate
51. Smith
52. Kate
53. Kate
54. 8 months later
Epilogue

Decadent
1. Delilah
2. Delilah
3. Delilah
4. Delilah
5. Delilah
6. Delilah
7. Gray
8. Gray
9. Delilah
10. Gray
11. Gray
12. Delilah
13. Gray
14. Gray
15. Delilah
 16. Delilah
17. Gray
18. Delilah
19. Delilah
20. Gray
21. Delilah
22. Delilah
23. Delilah
24. Delilah
25. Gray
26. Delilah
27. Delilah
28. Gray
29. Delilah
30. Delilah
31. Delilah
32. Delilah
33. Gray
34. Delilah
35. Gray
36. Delilah
37. Delilah
38. Delilah
39. Delilah
40. Delilah
41. Gray
42. Delilah
43. Delilah
44. Delilah
45. Delilah
46. Gray
47. Delilah
48. Gray
SIX MONTHS LATER

About the Author

More Steamy Romantic Suspense by Eva Charles
DEPRAVED
THE DEVIL’S DUE (BOOK 1)
 PROLOGUE

M yhimself
name is JD Wilder, and tonight my father will be elected president of the United States. Satan
will occupy the Oval Office for the next four years. There have been others, all
compelling imposters, but Damien Wilder is the real deal.
As for me?
I’m the devil’s spawn.
 1

Gabrielle

“U ghhhh!” I whack the edge of the frozen laptop. “Why won’t you behave tonight?”
“Can’t beat those things into submission. I’ve tried.”
An ominous chill raises gooseflesh, as I struggle to make sense of the voice. It can’t be. It just
can’t be.
Can it?
Curling my fingers into the leather blotter, I lift only my eyes, peeking carefully over my lashes. A
tremor builds as the animal filling my doorway comes into focus. Long and lean, a broad shoulder
braced against the wooden frame, his right hand buried deep in the trouser pocket of a trim navy suit.
My heart bangs furiously on my chest wall, as though fighting to escape. Like the rest of me, it
wants to run and hide. But this is my office. My hotel. And I will not be cowed by JD Wilder.
Ever again.
I try to summon some anger so my voice won’t wobble. My lips part to speak, but my mouth is
dry, my tongue rough and heavy, and the words don’t come.
“The hotel is stunning,” he drawls, in that seductive baritone he uses to charm and cajole. “The
photo layout in Charleston Monthly doesn’t do it justice. You’ve done a hell of a job with the
restoration.”
His tone rankles me. Arrogant? Condescending? I’m not sure. But the annoyance stiffens my
backbone, and allows the words to flow freely.
“How did you get in here?”
He says nothing.
“I’m sure you didn’t come by after all these years to admire the hotel. Especially tonight. I’m
surprised you’re not at Wildwood Plantation, celebrating. Or commiserating.”
With two long strides, he eats up the space between us, bringing the dark, musky scent of sin with
him. When I dare to blink, my eyes flit to the starched white collar grazing his neck. It makes a sharp
contrast to a jaw that hasn’t seen a razor in days.
We peer at each other across the desk. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. And dammit, my heart
hurts. Just a little.
“It’s been too long,” he murmurs.
 I lower my eyes to ease the discomfort, but his hands are there. Large and forbidding, splayed on
my desk with both thumbs hooked under the carved lip. Skillful hands that probed and teased,
wakening my flesh with a practiced touch. Luring me into dark, dreamy corners where there was only
pleasure—until there wasn’t.
I look away, my eyes searching desperately for a place to land. Somewhere safe that won’t dredge
up painful memories. But there’s no eluding him. No escaping the flood of emotion that took hold of
me when he entered the room.
When I glance up, his jaw is set and his eyes dilated, as though they haven’t grown accustomed to
the dim light in the room. Or maybe he’s remembering the white-hot nights, too.
The heat creeps up my neck, and I push the salacious thoughts away, focusing instead on how out
of place his callused fingers look against the polished mahogany. But there is little reprieve for me.
“Gabrielle.” My name glides off his tongue, as though he speaks it all too often.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking up. I will not do it. He had my rapt attention once, and
I’ll be damned if he gets it again. Without even a cursory glance in his direction, I lift the stack of
papers in front of me and bounce the edges off the desktop, again and again, until I’m satisfied each
sheet has fallen into line.
“I have a business proposition for you.”
A business proposition? After all this time? I don’t buy it. Not for a single second. “I’m not
interested.”
“You will be.”
“Not a chance.”
How did he get in here? Georgina locked the door to the suite when she left for the day. I heard
the lock catch. I know I did. “I’m still wondering how you obtained access to a private area in my
hotel. Breaking and entering might be business as usual for you, but security is no small matter for
me.”
He steps back and lowers himself into a chair directly in front of the desk. The rich wool fabric
stretches taut over his thighs, hugging the thick muscle like a second skin. I feel a small unwelcome
pang between my legs. The barest of sensations. But God help me, it’s there.
For a fleeting moment, I consider calling security. I want him gone, right now, before—
“Hear me out.”
“You can’t possibly have time for this tonight.” I roll back the chair and stand to signal the
discussion is over, but he doesn’t budge, not even when I start around the desk to see him out. Anyone
else would take the hint. But not JD. Yes, he knows I want him to leave. He just doesn’t give a damn.
“I need you to go.”
He doesn’t blink, but his eyes travel over me in an all-too-familiar manner, before settling on
mine. His gaze is steely. I suppose it’s meant to make me heel. If so, he’ll be disappointed. I’m not the
love-struck teenager he coaxed into doing anything and everything he wanted. She’s long gone.
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Gabrielle. I might have phrased it politely, leaving you to believe there’s
a choice other than to listen, but it’s not at all what I meant. You will hear me out. Sit.”
Sit? The hell I will. “I am not a dog. And I prefer to stand, thank you.”
“Sit down.”
I’m torn. There’s a small part of me that’s curious, and a larger, saner part that wants to throw him
out of my office before he utters another word. But above all else, what I want is to lash out and defy
him. I want it with every living, breathing cell in my body.
But I don’t kid myself. What I want is of no consequence. I’ve known JD my entire life, and he’s
not going anywhere until he has said everything he came to say.
I edge my backside onto the corner of the desk—surely this qualifies as sitting—and pull back
my shoulders with my head high and proud. Only the fingers twisting in my lap hint at how anxious
this man makes me.
“I’m sitting. Get on with it.”
He says nothing.
JD plays a wretched little game when he wants the upper hand—which is pretty much all the time.
He doesn’t talk. He just observes and listens with the utmost patience, absorbing every nuance, every
stutter, every tic of his victim’s unease. He’s cool and calculating, like a chess master, or a predator
preparing to swoop in for the kill. When he decides you’ve suffered enough, he speaks carefully. It’s
mesmerizing to watch, unless you’re the one caught in the cross hairs. I witnessed it dozens of times
when we were younger, but even so, it’s my undoing now.
He runs a thumb across his full bottom lip, arching a single disapproving brow at me.
I don’t care. The extra height gives me confidence and helps me feel in control. But it’s an
illusion. And I know it.
“Your father took a loan from me. A loan he’ll never be able to pay back.”
“What?”
He might as well have said Martians landed on the Flag Tower at the Citadel, and they’re
occupying downtown Charleston as we speak. The idea of my father accepting a loan from him is that
preposterous. “I-I-I don’t believe you.”
He says nothing.
How could my parents go to him without first talking to me? They weren’t privy to any of the ugly
details, but they know he hurt me. Yet, they went behind my back, told him things they kept from me,
and took his money without a single word about it?
I struggle for composure, trying to make sense of why my parents would possibly go to him for
money. I can’t come up with a single thing.
I glance at him. He’s watching from the catbird seat, waiting patiently for me to make a wrong
move, say the wrong thing, so he can pounce. I imagine him backing me into a corner, swatting with
his oversized paws like a big tomcat, toying with me until his hunger consumes him. Then devouring
me in a single bite.
Gabrielle, get a grip. Do not let him do this to you.
I take a few calming breaths.
“My mother’s very sick.” It’s the only reason I can come up with, but it doesn’t make much sense.
“If they needed money, they would have come to me.” Yes, of course they would have come to me
before going to JD. “I can’t imagine why they’d go to you without talking to me first.”
“And what would you be able to offer them?”
You smug bastard. “I own the hotel. I—”
“Oh stop. You don’t have a prayer of coming up with the kind of money they need. You took every
cent of equity out of this place to renovate and get it open. You’re in debt over your head.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me or my hotel.”
“I know everything I care to know.”
His voice is low and gruff, the sound achingly familiar. A small tug at the base of my belly fuels
the anger and confusion.
“What do you want?”
JD leans back with an elbow draped casually over an arm of the chair. He deliberately brushes a
piece of lint from his trousers before answering, as though even the most inconsequential matters are
more important than responding to me. “I’ll get to that soon. First, let me fill you in on what’s
happening with your mother.”
“What do you mean, fill me in on what’s happening with my mother? What’s going on with my
mother?” Lower your voice, Gabrielle. The hotel’s filled with guests. But right now, all I really care
about is my mother.
“She’s in good hands. Your parents left the city last night to get a second opinion about your
mother’s illness.”
“They said they were going to the beach for a few days to spend some time alone before she
begins treatment.” Anger. Betrayal. Fear. Swirling and twisting until they’re indistinguishable. “She
already had a second opinion. Two additional opinions,” I choke out.
A lump gathers in my throat as I remember those appointments. How the doctors explained
everything in excruciating detail. Painting a vivid picture of the disease and how it would progress. It
was sobering—for me, for my mother—but especially for my father, who would do anything to
change the course for her. Anything. Including making a deal with the devil, it appears.
“She had an appointment with a world-renowned immunologist today. He’s running some tests
and is likely to confirm the diagnosis, but he might have a more promising treatment to offer that’ll
give her more good years.”
“Where are they?” And why didn’t they tell me any of this?
“It’s up to them to tell you where they are. They don’t want to give you false hope in case the
long-term prognosis doesn’t change. Your mother insists on keeping you in the dark until they have
more information.”
I swallow my pride, and like a big, tasteless wad of chewing gum, it catches at the back of my
throat going down. My parents are still keeping vital information from me as though I’m a child. It
never changes. “They don’t want me to know about any of it. Yet here you are.”
“I have it on good authority the appointment went better than expected.”
“So much for privacy laws.”
The smallest of smiles plays on his lips, but his eyes don’t twinkle. “Your mother will talk to you
when she’s ready.”
“She’ll talk to me now.” I reach over and grab my cell phone off the desk and call my parents, but
it doesn’t go through. I text them, but the messages aren’t delivered.
“You won’t be able to reach them, Gabrielle.”
“I don’t care how powerful you think you are, even the president himself doesn’t control the damn
cellular network.” My voice is full of bravado, but in my heart, I know there’s very little the Wilders
don’t control. Especially now, with DW a presidential candidate.
I lean over the desk, pick up the landline, and dial my parents’ number from memory. I still can’t
get through. Panic begins to fill my chest, squeezing and tightening until it’s difficult to breathe.
“Don’t underestimate me, or my reach. There’s no end to what I can make happen if it suits me.”
A myriad of emotions roll through me, breaching the dam I painstakingly built in the last fifteen
years. Pushing and pushing against the walls until there is nothing standing between visceral emotion
and him. “I hate you.”
My voice is raw with the hurt and betrayal he’s dredged up. I don’t want him to see the
vulnerability, but I can’t stop myself. “It wasn’t enough to break my heart, to humiliate me and rub my
nose in it. No. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve taken everything.”
Pain flashes in his eyes like a bolt of lightning slicing through a dark, empty canvas. I see it. It’s
there for just a brief second and then it’s gone. But I’m certain it was there.
He’s a heartless bastard and you are a fool, Gabrielle.
He crosses one leg over the other, an ankle resting on a knee. “Your parents can’t afford the
treatment.” The tip of a long finger traces the inner seam of his shoe, gliding through the ridge where
the soft cordovan leather meets the sole. “It’s considered experimental even though they’ve had some
success with it. Insurance won’t cover any of it.”
“When did you get to be such an expert on a rare autoimmune disease? And exactly why did you
lend them money?”
“Before I agreed to pay for the cost of your mother’s treatment, along with all their living
expenses while they’re away, I did some research. I don’t throw around money idly.”
He’s calm, and I’m feeling just short of hysterical. I want to shake him. “Why? Why did you agree
to help? What could you possibly want from them?”
He doesn’t speak for at least a full minute, maybe more. It feels like hours slip away while we
stare at each other. With each passing second, the silence grows louder until it shrieks like a banshee
heralding my demise. This will not end well for me. I can feel it in my marrow, and the wait is
excruciating. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, it sucks all the oxygen from the room.
“You. I want you.”
I wait for the punch line. Maybe a cruel laugh, and him to tell me I’m not fit to carry his trash to
the curb. And I wait. Surely, I misunderstood. But one look at his stony face and I know there’s no
misunderstanding.
“Me?”
His gaze is penetrating. “I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Always have. Nothing’s
changed.”
Maybe he’s not talking about sex. Maybe I’ve let my mind run away. Maybe he wants to use the
hotel for some half-cocked scheme. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
“What do you want from me?”
“Whatever itch I need scratched.”
Whatever itch I need scratched. Sex. He wants me to be his plaything. His whore.
My knees tremble until they can no longer support my weight. I grip the edge of the desk, and
slump into the chair beside him. I’m done. It’s been a long, trying day, and he’s beaten what little fight
I had left right out of me. I can’t bear to hear any more from him. From the man who once professed
his love for me. From the man who promised to protect me from all the evil in the world.
The room whirls, and a sour taste tickles my throat. My face is damp and clammy, and I can’t
decide if I’m going to vomit or faint first. Gripping the sides of my knees, I lower my head between
my legs to stop the spinning.
He curses, and I hear the echo of my name and the faint rustle of his trousers, but it all seems so
far away. I don’t know how long I’m hunched over before he crouches next to me and pulls back my
hair with a long, gentle sweep. “Take small sips,” he instructs, wrapping my fingers around a paper
cup.
I sit up slowly and do as instructed. Small sips until the nausea subsides and the room stills again.
JD sits beside me, his chair angled toward me, assessing quietly while I pull myself together.
“Do you need to lie down?”
I shake my head and swallow the last drops of cool water, staring into the empty cup as though I
might find some wisdom there.
 “You want me? For—sex? You can’t. Can’t possibly. After all these years, why me?” I’m
rambling. Barely managing choppy fragments between the short pants. My mind can’t process any of
this. Or it won’t.
“It means exactly what you think it means.”
I look up at him. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, his gaze devoid of any
compassion. I search frantically, but can’t find a single shred of decency anywhere in his face.
“But why me, JD?” My voice is louder now. Stronger. My thoughts more coherent. “Of all the
women in Charleston. Of all the women who stalk your every move like you’re a goddamn rock star.
Why does it have to be me?”
He slides his wrist along the chair arm, as though he’s polishing a scuff from the exposed wood.
“Opportunity. Never been one to pass up a good opportunity, especially when it falls into my lap.”
His icy eyes meet mine. “Maybe I want something familiar. Or maybe I like the challenge. Take your
pick.”
He’s not joking.
I’m stuck in his trap. Snared without a single hope of freeing myself. My pulse pounds loudly in
the silence while I search for an escape. “I’m engaged,” I plead. It’s a lie, but I’m desperate.
“Pfft. Engaged. Don’t go there. Just don’t.”
I start to argue it’s true, but I don’t bother. It won’t take much for JD to figure out that Dean and I
broke up. Gossip travels through Charleston like a tiny hamlet. In a matter of days, everyone will
know.
There’s no way my father would have agreed to terms remotely like this. He would never do that
to me. But JD is manipulative and cunning, and I wouldn’t be shocked if he managed to trick my
parents. I grip my seat and push out the words. Mentally preparing myself to be ripped apart. “My
father agreed to this?”
Please say no. Please. I fill my lungs and hold the breath while waiting for an answer.
He looks aghast. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I slowly release the breath, and relax my hold on the chair. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m not interested in his money.”
“This has nothing to do with me. It’s between you and him.”
“Not anymore.”
“What if I don’t—agree to your terms?”
“I turn off the tap, and your mother doesn’t get access to the beneficial treatment.”
My hand instinctively flies to my mouth to cover a gasp. Of all the terrible things he’s said today,
this stuns me most. “Even you wouldn’t be that spiteful. Not to my mother. You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” He sits back in the chair, lifts his chin, and stares straight into my eyes.
“I would hate to see her suffer. Your parents worked for my family for a long time. As far back as I
can remember. They were always good to us, especially after the accident. But business is business.”
 2

Gabrielle

B usiness is business? His cruelty re-energizes me.

“Is that what you think? Is that how you think about life? About relationships? It’s all
transactional? God help you.”
“I’ve never been a fool who turns to God for help.”
No, JD doesn’t believe in God. Not after his mother died. Praying to God is for the rest of us
foolish mortals. I tuck a loose curl behind my ear, plotting a way forward. “How much does he owe
you?”
“After all is said and done, I expect it will end up to be somewhere in the vicinity of three
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s a conservative estimate. It could be more.”
I gasp at the sheer magnitude of the number.
He’s right. There’s not even the slightest possibility my father will be able to repay him, and I’m
not sure I’ll ever be able to either. Certainly not in cash. “This will take some time, JD. I’ll need a
week. Maybe a month. Add additional interest to the debt. I don’t care. I’ll come up with the money.”
“And how are you fixin’ to do that?”
He’s smug and comfortable, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I hear it in the informal
cadence of his speech, the way his Ivy League education yields to his Southern roots. He asks the
question like he already knows the answer. But I suppose only a fool wouldn’t wonder how I expect
to raise all that cash. JD is many things, but he’s never been foolish. Calculating and clever, but never
foolish. I doubt that’s changed. “I’ll go to the bank. And my fiancé will help.”
When he says nothing, I glance up nervously.
His body is tight and a storm is brewing in his eyes. “Your fiancé is a worthless piece of shit who
has about drained his bank account, and given the opportunity, would siphon every dime out of this
place, too.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about my fiancé, or our relationship. So just stop.”
“I know he hangs around sleazy bars on the dock, looking for a game to lay a bet on or a whore to
stick his tiny dick into.”
I swallow the humiliation and lift my chin. “I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself. You always liked fantasies.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Philistine
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Philistine

a periodical of protest (Vol. III, No. 3, August 1896)

Author: Various

Editor: Elbert Hubbard

Release date: January 11, 2024 [eBook #72688]

Language: English

Original publication: East Aurora: The Society of the Philistines,

1895

Credits: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from
images made available by the HathiTrust Digital
Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PHILISTINE ***
 The Philistine
A Periodical of Protest.
Let me take you a buttonhole lower.—Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Printed Every Little While for The Society

of The Philistines and Published by Them
Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly

Single Copies, 10 Cents. August, 1896.

 THE PHILISTINE.

CONTENTS FOR AUGUST.

Miserere, Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

An Hour with Maecenas, G. W. Stevens.
Sunrise Over the City, William James Baker.
The Captives, Ouida.
If Love Were All, Edith Neil.
The Man on a Bicycle, Harvey Lewis Wickham.
The Steward, C. P. N.
Let There Be Gall Enough in Thy Ink, Adeline Knapp.
The Worshippers, Charles P. Nettleton.
Side Talks with the Philistines.
Conducted by the East Aurora School of Philosophy.

Have you seen the Roycroft Quarterly? The “Stephen Crane”

number is attracting much attention and we believe it will interest
you. 25 cents a copy.

Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for

transmission as mail matter of the second class.
COPYRIGHT, 1896, by B. C. Hubbard.
 NOTICE TO
Collectors of Artistic Posters.

On receipt of 10 cents we will send to any address, a copy of

our largely illustrated catalogue of 500 posters exhibited by “The
Echo” and “The Century.”
“The Echo” is the pioneer in fostering the poster in America. It
began its department of Poster-Lore in August, 1895, and has
printed it fortnightly, with many illustrations, ever since.

Each issue of “The Echo” bears a poster design, in two or

more colors, on its cover. During the past year seven of these
covers were by Will H. Bradley.

“The Echo” is $2.00 a year, 10 cents a number. New York,

130 Fulton Street.

LOOK OUT for the second and popular edition of “Cape of

Storms,” price 25 cents. One sent free with every year’s
subscription to “The Echo.”

THE LOTUS.
A Miniature Magazine of Art and Literature Uniquely Printed and
Illustrated.

A graceful flower.—Rochester Herald.

 It is a wonder.—Chicago Times-Herald.
The handsomest of all the bibelots.—The Echo.
Alone in its scope and piquancy.—Boston Ideas.
Artistic in style and literary in character.—Brooklyn Citizen.
The prettiest of the miniature magazines.—Syracuse Herald.
Each bi-weekly visit brings a charming surprise.—Everybody.
The Lotus seeks to be novel, unconventional and entertaining
without sacrificing purity and wholesomeness. It seeks to be a
medium for the younger writers.
The Lotus is published every two weeks and is supplied to
subscribers for One Dollar a year; foreign subscription, $1.25.
Sample copy five cents. On sale at all news stands.
THE LOTUS, Kansas City, Mo.

The Roycroft Quarterly:

Being a Goodly collection of Literary Curiosities obtained from

Sources not easily accessible to the average Book-Lover. Offered
to the Discerning every three months for 25c. per number or one
dollar per year.
Contents for May:
I. Glints of Wit and Wisdom: Being replies from sundry Great Men
who missed a Good Thing.
II. Some Historical Documents by W. Irving Way, Phillip Hale and
Livy S. Richard.
III. As to Stephen Crane. E. H. A preachment by an admiring
friend.
IV. Seven poems by Stephen Crane.
 1—The Chatter of a Death Demon.
2—A Lantern Song.
3—A Slant of Sun on Dull Brown Walls.
4—I have heard the Sunset Song of the Birches.
5—What Says the Sea?
6—To the Maiden the Sea was Blue Meadow.
7—Fast Rode the Knight.

V. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. Recording the venial sin of a

mortal under sore temptation.
VI. A Prologue. Stephen Crane.
 THE PHILISTINE.

no. 3. August, 1896. vol. 3.

 MISERERE.
Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
Darkness, sunshine, kind words, jeers,
The flitting moments, halting years—
Strange contrasts these!

Today the youth, tomorrow age;

We read, and then we turn the page;
The fool we honour, not the sage—
Sad travesties!

The dancers gay, the open grave—

From foot-lights’ flare to solemn wave
The sale of souls Christ came to save—
Life’s tragedies!

—Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

 AN HOUR WITH MAECENAS.
One, two, three—five men that call themselves my friends, all wishful
to borrow money! Statilius, you will please to make a note of these
five gentlemen, and give orders that on no account are they to pass
my vestibule again. The settlement of society under our Prince has
done much to stamp out the dangerous classes, but we have not yet
got rid of the borrowers. I think it a little hard that after I have
neglected my estate for half my life to expel roguery by the front door
that it should creep in at the back.
Did you inquire, Statilius, why my cook served white sauce with
quails last night? Very well; I have made it a rule to deal with my
people in person: send for him. It is not possible to maintain a
household well regulated, unless the servants come personally into
touch with the master.
Plato, you served me last night a dish which, had any of my
friends been present, would have shamed me forever. As it was, my
dinner was ruined. It is incompetence such as yours whose ill effects
Rome has struggled these eight lustrums to efface. You will be sold
in the market tomorrow. Go.
You see now, Statilius, the wisdom of my rule to permit no
freedman in my household: all my servants are my own property.
You will buy me the best cook in Rome in three hours. What, sir?
You are a free man, and I employed you only to work at my pedigree
and my library? True: I am satisfied with you. But understand that if I
bid you litter my horses you will do it, or I sell you up tomorrow. Now,
sir, the best cook in Rome is Iulus Antonius’s Dama: buy him.
Antonius is a rich man? Very true, but I think we need not be afraid
of that. We can tempt him, I imagine, Statilius. At any price whatever:
do you understand? And not a penny more than he will sell at:
understand that also. If he is stubborn, hint at my influence with the
Prince; that will be sufficient. Go.
 Iulus knows that he is whispered against, and he looks to me to
prop him up. I shall not do so. Again and again I have urged on
Octavian the necessity of putting these malcontents out of the way.
His father’s son cannot but be a danger to a settled State, however
soundly disposed himself. It appears to me that Octavian is losing
his aptitude for politics, and Agrippa exercises the worst possible
influence upon him. This stupid, expensive system of banishment: it
should never have had my voice had I remained in politics.
Thucydides, I have told you once already I am not to be disturbed
in meditation. The poet Horace is in attendance? Horatius, I think
you mean; avoid these vulgarisms, Thucydides. Bid Horatius wait.
Indeed, I doubt not whether Octavian had at any time any real grasp
of the principles of government. I was deceived by the facility with
which he lent himself to my views. He is a man incapable of
understanding any system between militarism and license. Of the
finer arts of statecraft I am afraid he knows very little. How often
have I explained to that man how the law of treason might be
developed into an infallible engine of sound government! Yes: I was
wise to leave politics, though Octavian is ungrateful to his Mentor.
Well, I will see Horatius. He, at least, with all his faults, is a faithful
soul. A man I have made.
Good-day, Horatius. I hope you are well and keeping sober. Have
you brought the work I commissioned? Very well; let me see it. There
has been a very great improvement in your manner of writing,
Horatius, since I took you up: the large P’s are very much bolder
than they were. But what is this? This is not the Epistle Dedicatory I
ordered. That comes second? Ah! yes, here it is; you should have
given it to me first.

Maecenas, born of grandsire kings—

Quite right: “grandsire kings” is very good. It is not, of course, literally

correct, but one may, in poetry, fairly write the particular term
“grandsire” for the general “ancestor”—

O my defense and proud delight!

“Proud delight.” Now I think I shall correct that to “dear delight.” I
think the alliteration is well worth securing, and you may allow
yourself a familiarity in literature, Horatius, where all men are equal,
which, as I have no doubt you felt in writing, would be highly
unbecoming in society. “Proud delight” does you credit as a man, my
good Horatius; as a poet I permit—nay, I invite you to write “dear.”

To hug the post with wheels afire

The piece gets a little tame in the middle, Horatius, ... ah! what is
this?

But deign me so to canonize,

O’er highest heaven my fame will rise.

Yes, very happy. A very good ode, Horatius. You have distinctly
added to your reputation. I am very glad to note that you disavow
that most dangerous tendency, which I am sorry to see is growing
among some of my poets, to defer to the popular judgment. Even
poor Virgil is tainted by it in this last epic, as he calls it, published in
one of those measly magazinelets. I am afraid Virgil is coming to
think more of the so-called glories of Rome than of his truest friends.
Such defection on your part, I warn you candidly, I should feel very
deeply. Now what is this other? I hope none of that Epicurean stuff
which is such a handicap, if I may so phrase it, upon your best
powers for good....

Ah, Postumus, how fleet, how fleet,

The years slip by no prayers may stay
Since beldame Age knows not delay,
Since Death pursues with ruthless feet—

I think you might have found a fitter name than Postumus; but it is
very passable. I suppose you have verified all these mythological
allusions in the Greek; it is not your industry I need ever distrust.

Your land, your house, your yielding wife

Renounce; and of these trees you trim;
 None follows, save the cypress grim,
The lordling of the little life.

Yes, the tone of the work is quite good.... And then—really Horatius,
you are too annoying—then you must spoil all again in the last
stanza. I have warned you a thousand times against that, Horatius.
Listen, sir, to what you say here—

He breaks your seals, the worthier heir,

He sweeps your bins, the worthier lord,
Dashing imperial winds abroad,
While Pontiffs envy and despair.

Now, understand once and for all, Horatius, that I will not have such
pernicious and disloyal trash as this put out to pollute the State. You
say you meant nothing impious? Well, then I will ask you, Horatius,
who is Chief Pontiff? The prince; so I had thought. And then you say
you had no intention of disloyalty? In that case I will merely answer
that you have expressed yourself very badly. You will agree, I
suppose—even you who were out with Brutus, when I understand
you threw away your shield—that what we must all work for in Rome,
is a settled social order? And I suppose that you are not incapable of
perceiving that this is impossible without the maintenance of
religion? And perhaps you may have heard that His Highness is
supreme head of our religion? And then, do you tell me, sir, that you
did not see that this last stanza—this Pontiff’s ambition, or whatever
it is—is pernicious in the highest degree? Now this is what I shall do.
I shall make you, Horatius, write an ode of fourteen stanzas in praise
of His Highness as Chief Pontiff. Take your tablets and write down
the heads of the poem, as I dictate them.
First: The deplorable desuetude.
I beg your pardon: I think I was asking you to take down the heads
of the ode. What! I? You say that I gave you the subjects of this one?
Very possibly, though I do not remember: with the ode as a whole I
am very well satisfied. You say I gave the hint of the Pontiff? Very
true; I recollect it quite well, but it was not to be used, or wasted, in
the spirit in which you have used it here. Perhaps, however, you
meant it to refer to the Pontiffs of the old regime, whose unworthy
excesses I may have doubtless mentioned to you at some time? I
could wish, Horatius, that your execution were on a level with your
intention: you lay yourself open to a great deal of misconstruction. I
think we must substitute “late” for “while.”
What is that you are sputtering about Minucius? I told you to
glance at Minucius? Well, in one respect you are quite right. I do not
remember that I ever spoke of him to you, but the extravagance of
Minucius not only makes him a man impossible to be seen abroad
with, but constitutes a great scandal on the pontificate. And I tell you,
sir, I tell you that that man’s insolence to his betters is more than any
well-ordered State could endure. He has got the Prince’s ear, and
presumes upon it. Yes, you may jab at Minucius whenever you can,
and as hard as you can. I am very glad I suggested that, and you
have taken up the hint very cleverly. Sit down, my good Horatius;
you must be tired of standing, and we men of letters are all equal,
whatever our social position. I will read you a chapter of my own
history that I threw off last night. You will remember, of course, what
happened while I was Urban Prefect.
G. W. Stevens.
 SUNRISE OVER THE CITY.
With restless searching are the nightwinds spent,
A solitary bird pipes lovenotes lorn,
Portent of life new wakening with the morn;
Long lines of flaring lamps still burn their stent,
With gloom upon the city’s bosom blent;
But ’bove the dark threat of a cloud low drawn,
White as a wraith, pale glows God’s holy dawn,
The morning star her brightest ornament.
As gathering splendor floods the world with light,
The whilom watcher sleeps, forgetting grief;
And though ’neath fuming smoke, ’mid roll of wheels,
The sordid city wakes her giant might
Lustful of gain, her deepest heart yet feels
The benediction of that vision brief.

William James Baker.

 THE CAPTIVES.
Amongst them there was one colossal form, on which the sun
poured with its full radiance.
This was the form of a man grinding at a mill-stone; the majestic,
symmetrical, supple form of a man who was also a god.
In his naked limbs there was a supreme power; in his glance there
was a divine command; his head was lifted as though no yoke could
ever lie on that proud neck; his foot seemed to spurn the earth as
though no mortal tie had ever bound him to the sod that human
steps bestrode: yet at the corn-mill he laboured, grinding wheat like
the patient blinded oxen that toiled beside him.
It was the great Apollo in Pherae.
The hand which awoke the music of the spheres had been blood
stained with murder; the beauty which had the light and lustre of the
sun had been darkened with passion and with crime; the will which
no other on earth or in heaven could withstand had been bent under
the chastisement of Zeus.
He whose glances had made the black and barren slopes of Delos
to laugh with fruitfulness and gladness—he whose prophetic sight
beheld all things past, present, and to come, the fate of all unborn
races, the doom of all unspent ages—he, the Far-Striking King,
laboured here beneath the curse of crime, greatest of all the gods,
and yet a slave.
In all the hills and vales of Greece his Io paean sounded still.
Upon his holy mountains there still arose the smoke of fires of
sacrifice.
With dance and song the Delian maidens still hailed the divinity of
Leto’s son.
 The waves of the pure Ionian air still rang forever with the name of
Delphinios.
At Pytho and at Clarus, in Lycia and in Phodis, his oracles still
breathed forth upon their fiat terror or hope into the lives of men; and
still in all the virgin forests of the world the wild beasts honored him
wheresoever they wandered; and the lion and the bear came at his
bidding from the deserts to bend their necks and their wills of fire
meekly to bear his yoke in Thessaly.
Yet he labored here at the corn-mill of Admetus; and watching him
at his bondage stood the slender, slight, wing-footed Hermes, with a
slow, mocking smile upon his knavish lips, and a jeering scorn in his
keen eyes, even as though he cried:
“O brother, who would be greater than I! For what hast thou
bartered to me the golden rod of thy wealth and thy dominion over
the flocks and the herds? For seven chords strung on a shell—for a
melody not even thine own! For a lyre outshone by my syrinx hast
thou sold all thine empire to me. Will human ears give heed to thy
song now thy sceptre has passed to my hands? Immortal music only
is left thee, and the vision foreseeing the future. O god! O hero! O
fool! what shall these profit thee now?”
Thus to the artist by whom they had been begotten the dim white
shapes of the deities sometimes speak. Thus he sees them, thus he
hears, whilst the pale and watery sunlight lights up the form of the
toiler in Pherae. For even as it was with the divinity of Delos, so is it
likewise with the genius of a man, which, being born of a god, yet is
bound as a slave to the grind-stone. Since even as Hermes mocked
the Lord of the Unerring Bow, so is genius mocked of the world,
when it has bartered the herds, and the grain, and the rod that metes
wealth, for the seven chords that no ear, dully mortal, can hear.
He can bend great thoughts to take the shapes that he choose, as
the chained god in Pherae bound the strong kings of the desert and
forest to carry his yoke; yet, like the god, he likewise stands fettered
to the mill to grind for bread.
Ouida.